* 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


JUANITA 


AND 


OTHER  SKETCHES 


BY 


JENNIE    L.    HOPKINS. 


DENVER,  COLORADO: 
THE  ZALINGER  PRESS, 

MDCCCXXCIV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in. the  year  1884,  by 

BENJAMIN  F.  ZALINGER, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


To 

MY  YOUNGER  SISTERS, 
FROM  WHOSE  BRIGHT  YOUNG  LIVES 

I  HAVE 
DRAWN  MUCH  COURAGE  AND  INSPIRATION, 

THESE  SIMPLE  SKETCHES 
ARE     AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


PUBLISHED    BY    SUBSCRIPTION. 


PREFACE. 

Realizing  fully  how  tame  and  colorless 
these  little  sketches  may  seem,  in  comparison 
with  all  the  gorgeous  inventive  plot,  and  infin- 
ite variety  of  the  elaborate  literary  frippery  of 
our  day,  I  am  yet  bold  enough  to  throw  my 
precious  nurselings  on  the  mercy  of  the  public, 
hoping  there  are  some  among  you,  who  may 
feel  their  simple,  homely  worth,  as  I  have  felt 
it  in  their  creation. 

J.  L.  H. 
DENVER,  MAY  IST.,  1884. 


CONTENTS. 

JUANITA 13 

FANCIES  OF  THE  SNOW 45 

PICTURES  IN  THE  FIRELIGHT    ....  59 

JUNE  ROSES 73 

THE  HONEYSUCKLE  COTTAGE   ....  85 

PLEASANT  PEOPLE 105 

FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS    .     .     .     .  113 

SUNDAY  MORNINGS 143 

THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD 151 

MY  SKETCH  BOOK 159 

AN  AUGUST  VISION 193 

COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  WINTER       ....  203 

SISTER  PACHITA 213 

ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY 237 

APRIL  RAINS 243 

MY  VALENTINE 251 

THE  LADY'S  DREAM 269 


JUANITA. 


| 'AN  LUIS  Valley  lay  burning  in  the 
sun  one  day — one  very  warm  day  in 
r  midsummer,  when  there  was  scarcely 
^  air  enough  any  where  to  show  that  any- 
thing lived ;  not  a  leaf  or  twig  of  the 
scant  low  verdure  was  stirring,  and  there  was  a 
white  hazy  torpor  over  everything,  that  para- 
lyzed effort,  and  made  existence  almost  a  bur- 
den. Away  out  at  the  edge  of  the  world,  a 
blue  rim  of  mountains  lifted  their  hazy  peaks 
Heavenward,  actually  clothed  with  snow-drifts, 
in  seeming  invitation  to  mortals  to  go  thence 
and  enjoy  their  grateful  coolness.  Snow-drifts 
in  midsummer!  Ah!  how  delicious  they  looked 


14  JUANITA. 


to  Juanita,  as  she  wearily  urged  her  lazy  mule 
through  the  valley  that  August  afternoon,  when 
everything  was  at  white  heat,  and  she  was  so 
tired  and  unhappy. 

Yes,  she  knew  the  mountains  lay  just  over 
there,  and  that  if  one  ascended  high  enough  he 
might  escape  perhaps,  one-tenth  of  the  heat 
away  up  there  among  the  shadows  of  the  great 
rocks,  but  Juanita  knew  also,  how  tedious  was 
that  trail,  and  how  much  exertion  must  be  put 
forth  to  urge  her  lazy  beast  up  that  tortuous 
path,  for  Jack  was  essentially  a  Mexican  mule, 
both  by  birth  and  education,  and  was  not  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  distinguish  himself  by  deeds 
of  daring.  Juanita  had  early  preferred  him  to 
the  burros,  when  her  father  had  decided  to  put 
her  in  charge  of  that  great  vicious  herd  of  cattle 
some  two  years  since,  and  somehow,  she  had 
never  had  so  good  a  friend  in  all  the  world  as 


Jl'AXITA.  15 


Jack  was.  Certainly  he  was  lazy,  but  Juanita 
was  that  herself;  he  objected  to  water  otherwise 
than  for  drinking  purposes,  and  when  the  Am- 
erican groom  had  insisted  on  giving  him  a 
washing  once  when  she  had  gone  with  a  bunch 
of  cattle  to  Las  Vegas,  Juanita  had  only  laughed 
at  His  Muleship's  resistance,  and  stared  quite  as 
blankly  as  Jack  had  done,  when  the  groom  had 
assurance  enough  to  propose  that  she  should  go 
down  to  those  famous  baths,  and  immerse  her 
pretty  hands  and  face  just  for  beauty's  sake. 
You  see  Jack  and  Juanita  had  a  good  deal  in 
common,  and  I  don't  believe  the  girl  ever 
thought  for  an  instant  of  chiding  the  mule  for 
his  little  misdeeds. 

Ned  Hewitt,  the  young  New  York  artist  who 
was  camping  out  in  the  valley,  said  the  mule 
had  a  good  face,  and  Juanita  always  imagined 
that  Jack  smiled  when  she  came  near,  and  when 


1 6  JUANITA. 


she  laid  her  dark  pretty  face  against  his  nose, 
he  always  stood  quite  still,  not  even  blinking 
in  the  hot  sun,  although  that  may  have  been  a 
direct  result  of  Jack's  disinclination  to  move 
under  any  circumstance,  but  Juanita  chose  to 
believe  it  was  because  he  loved  her,  and  per- 
haps, after  all,  that  may  have  been  the  reason, 
for  Jack  had  never  had  anyone  else  to  love  him, 
and  what  was  worse,  neither  had  Juanita. 

Even  on  such  a  heated  day  as  this,  Hewitt 
thought,  one  could  scarcely  be  indifferent 
enough,  not  to  pity  a  bright  young  thing  like 
this,  who  had  nobody  in  the  whole  world  to 
care  for  her — one  might  easily  imagine  such  a 
state  of  things  existing  in  the  life  ot  a  mule, 
but  a  girl  for  whom  no  one  cared?  A  girl  with 
a  form  like  a  wood  nymph,  and  a  pair  of  eyes, 
dark  and  lovely  enough  to  have  ravished  a 
prince  ?  A  girl  in  the  very  bloom  of  her  glow- 


]U  ANITA. 


ing  youth,  living  away  out  here  in  this  lonely 
valley,  with  only  a  poor  dumb  mule  for  a  com- 
panion? Ah!  surely  it  was  hard  enough,  but 
was  it  any  worse  than  the  hot-house  lives  the 
girls  of  his  own  fashionable  set  led  in  New 
York  ?  Was  it  any  worse,  pray,  than  the  weary 
hollow  life  Miss  Fanny  Gray,  his  fiancee,  was 
leading  now,  in  one  of  those  hot,  crowded  wa- 
tering-places on  the  Atlantic  coast?  •  He  knew 
she  was  dancing,  flirting,  wearing  herself  out, 
body  and  soul.  Did  he  care  ?  Possibly.  He 
knew  he  should  go  home  in  the  autumn  to 
chide  her  for  looking  so  thin  and  pale ;  for  be- 
ing so  listless,  and  taking  no  kind  of  interest  in 
anything  whatever,  himself  included.  It  had 
been  so  for  the  last  two  Autumns.  Their  quar- 
rel on  this  score  would  not  be  very  serious. 
Serious  things  were  not  in  the  habit  of  happen- 
ing to  Ned  Hewitt.  He  was  rich,  young  and 


1 8  JUANITA. 


handsome,  with  a  pretty  taste  for  painting,  and 
had  never  passed  a  sleepless  night  in  his  life. 

He  was  lying  under  a  blanket  beneath  the 
shade  of  a  great  yellow  umbrella;  it  was  too 
warm  to  work  to-day,  he  had  remarked  to  Juan- 
ita  a  half  hour  since  when  he  had  invited  her 
to  share  his  hastily  improvised  tent;  he  was 
very  sleepy  too,  but  somehow  when  that  vision 
of  Fanny  Gray,  dancing  and  flirting  at  Newport, 
came  intoohis  mind,  Juanita  cannot  be  said  to 
have  suffered  much  by  the  comparison,  even 
though  she  lived  alone  in  a  desert  with  a  dumb 
animal  and  a  grade  of  human  beings  who  were 
much  less  to  her  than  it  was. 

A  half-formed  desire  to  congratulate  Juanita 
on  her  glowing  health  and  freedom  from  all  the 
restrictions  of  society,  flitted  through  Hewitt's 
mind,  but  he  was  not  serious  enough  to  put  so 
earnest  a  thought  into  words ; — who  among  us 


JUANITA.  IQ 


all,  would  ever  think  seriously  if  circumstances 
did  not  demand  it?  Who  cares  to  shoulder 
burdens  unless  necessity  compels  him  to  do  so, 
and  necessity  had  never  compelled  Ned  Hewitt 
to  do  anything.  Nature  had  given  him  a  very 
pretty  talent  for  painting,  and  though  he  had 
never  really  exerted  himself,  he  had  finished 
some  very  pleasing  pieces  for  his  friends,  and 
had  come  here  a  year  ago  with  a  sort  of  indefi- 
nite consciousness  that  he  was  a  little  weary  of 
society,  and  that  possibly  he  might  work  up 
something  in  picturesque  Colorado,  that  would 
gain  him  admission  to  the  Academy  of  Design. 
This  was  his  one  ambition  in  life,  although,  of 
course,  there  was  Miss  Fanny  Gray  always  flut- 
tering somewhere  in  the  back-ground  in  silken 
draperies,  but  she  had  never  expressed  much 
interest  in  his  work,  and  it  was  not  for  her  sake 
he  desired  admittance  to  the  famous  school ; 


20  JUAXITA. 


he  wanted  a  membership  for  reasons  of  his  own; 
if  admission  depended  on  great  effort,  however, 
he  had  small  prospect  of  ever  attaining  it,  and 
he  owned  this  laughingly  to  himself,  but  to  use 
his  own  mental  expression  it  would  be  a  devil- 
ish fine  thing  to  live  with  geniuses  at  the  clubs, 
to  smoke  long  pipes,  and  tell  long  stories  over 
great  foaming  mugs  of  ale,  all  those  jolly 
nights,  of  which  he  had  as  yet  seen  but  a 
glimpse. 

Juanita  was  eyeing  him  curiously.  How 
fair  he  was,  with  those  masses  of  soft  brown 
hair,  and  those  frank  open  blue  eyes,  which 
reminded  her  of  wild  forget-me-nots.  How 
delicate  his  hands  were,  with  the  long  taper 
fingers,  and  pink  shapely  nails !  She  was  al- 
most tempted  to  touch  them,  to  see  if  they 
were  real.  He  seemed  to  her  as  pink  and 
white  as  the  waxen  saints  the  padre  had  brought 


J  I- ANITA.  21 


with  him  for  the  chapel,  the  last  time  he  had 
been  to  Denver.  How  beautiful  he  was  to  her! 
And  he  was  sleeping  now,  so  peacefully  there 
on  the  hot  earth,  with  only  his  white  hands  for 
a  pillow,  dreaming  that  a  portrait  of  Juanita  had 
gained  him  the  longed-for  admission  to  the 
Academy.  In  his  dream  he  saw  just  how  she 
would  look  when  those  long,  tangled  masses  of 
wavy  black  hair  were  brushed  out,  and  piled  in 
heavy  coils  on  the  back  of  her  head;  when 
jewels  sparkled  in  those  tiny  ears,  and  golden 
snakes  coiled  themselves  on  those  dusky  arms  ; 
scarlet  and  cloth  of  gold  would  be  her  robe ;  the 
girl  was  beautiful  enough  to  make  a  study  for 
a  Spanish  princess,  and  the  usually  impassive 
artist  was  intoxicated  at  the  thought  of  what 
she  would  be  on  canvas. 

And  so  he  had  spoken  kindly  to  the  girl  who 
sat  there  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees, 


22  JUANITA. 


and  her  eyes  filled  with  a  new  and  intelligent 
interest.  Jack  grazed  peacefully  at  her  side. 
Fortunately  for  him  the  grass  grew  so  thick- 
ly here  he  did  not  have  to  walk  three  paces 
during  the  entire  afternoon. 

Juanita,  looking  at  him  fondly,  shrugged  her 
pretty  shoulders,  and  thought  of  this  in  her  own 
way.  The  droll  idea  that  the  mule  would  starve 
before  he  would  walk  a  mile  in  the  hot  sun  for 
a  dinner,  brought  a  half  smile  into  the  corners 
of  her  mouth,  and  revealed  two  rows  of  teeth 
like  strung  pearls.  Juanita  knew  that  her  father 
had  always  despised  her  for  her  beauty.  Why 
had  she  not  been  a  sturdy  boy  like  the  others? 
This  was  the  question  he  had  asked  himself  and 
the  padre,  for  the  last  sixteen  years,  in  fact  ever 
since  the  girl  was  born.  "A  girl  is  no  use  at 
hunting  or  fishing,"  old  Jose  always  said,  "She 
can  only  tell  her  beads,  and  go  to  confessional. 


JUANITA.  23 


Look  at  those  slim  hands  and  wrists.  Do  you 
think  they  could  perform  any  kind  of  labor?" 
And  so,  negle6led  by  her  father  and  brothers, 
and  ill  used  by  the  grim  Mexican  woman  who 
was  her  step-mother,  the  girl  spent  most  of  her 
time  roaming  through  the  valley  until  finally 
her  father  put  her  in  charge  of  a  herd  of  cattle, 
and  so  she  was  never  at  home  any  more  from 
sunrise  until  sunset,  and  twice  a  year  she  went 
with  her  father  and  brothers  to  the  cattle  mar- 
ket. This  was  what  Juanita  told  Hewitt  when 
he  awoke,  he  speaking  Spanish  quite  as  badly 
as  she  spoke  English,  but  what  pair  of  young 
people  alone  with  Nature  ever  failed  to  under- 
stand each  other?  Hewitt  told  Juanita  it  was 
a  burning  shame  her  people  should  treat  her  so ; 
told  her  that  in  civilization  such  things  were 
not  allowed;  told  her  in  thrilling  tones  of  the 
place  his  own  sisters  occupied  in  the  house- 


24  JUANITA. 


hold;  told  her  how  beautiful  she  was,  but 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  he  did  not  speak  to  her 
of  Fanny  Gray.  I  have  always  thought  it  a  cu- 
rious phase  in  the  life  of  an  engaged  man,  that 
he  never  speaks  of  his  inamorata  to  any  young 
and  pretty  woman,  notwithstanding  what  his 
confidences  may  be  with  elderly  family  friends, 
but  it  does  not  follow  necessarily  that  this  is 
any  indication  of  unfaithfulness  on  the  lover's 
part.  The  truth  is,  young  hearts  in  the  fullness 
of  inexperience  and  the  strong  mesmerism  of 
a  pair  of  handsome  eyes,  are  always  irresistibly 
drawn  so  closely  together,  that  confessions  and 
explanations  are  out  of  the  question,  and  doubt 
not  that  if  many  noble  but  over-sensitive  wo- 
men were  to  take  the  naturalness  of  this  silly 
love-making  into  charitable  account,  there 
would  be  many  more  happy  marriages,  and  a 
great  many  less  broken  hearts  than  there  are 


J  U  ANITA.  25 


in  the  world.  It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  three- 
fourths  of  the  young  men  of  the  present  day, 
have  a  sweet  glance  and  a  loving  word  for  any 
pretty  girl  whenever  time  and  place  afford,  but 
notwithstanding  all  this,  in  most  men's  hearts 
there  lives  a  real  woman,  for  whom  if  put  to 
the  test,  they  would  fight  in  the  lists.  The 
trouble  is  now-a-days  they  are  not  put  to  the 
test,  and  so  all  this  foolish  meaningless  love- 
making  goes  on,  and  sometimes  the  jealous 
shafts  sink  so  deep  into  the  real  woman's  heart, 
that  stung  to  desperation,  she  breaks  her  vows, 
and  so  snaps  the  chords  of  her  love-life  asunder 
for  all  time.  This  state  of  things  was  as  fa- 
miliar to  Ned  Hewitt's  ideas  of  civilization,  as 
was  the  sight  of  the  innumerable  pretty  girls 
themselves,  but  as  I  said  before,  he  had  never 
done  anything  in  earnest  in  his  whole  life,  and 
I  am  afraid  there  was  no  "  real  woman"  living 


26  JLJANITA. 


down  in  the  depths  of  his  naturally  kind  heart 
He  had  never  felt  so  strongly  about  anything 
as  he  did  to-day,  and  the  wish  that  was  father 
to  that  serious  thought  was  a  selfish  desire  to 
paint  Juanita's  portrait.  All  that -long  hot  after- 
noon, while  he  talked  to  the  girl,  he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  that  portrait  in  scarlet 
plush  and  cloth  of  gold.  Already  he  fancied 
himself  famous,  sought  after,  admired,  the  fash- 
ion of  the  hour  among  the  picture-loving  people 
of  Fifth  Avenue.  His  glowing  imagination 
even  went  so  far  as  to  picture  a  scene  not  unlike 
that  depicted  in  a  work  of  Fortuney's,  which 
he  had  seen  in  a  Parisian  Salon,  where  the 
Academicians,  noble  old  men,  in  court  dress 
and  powdered  wigs,  come  to  select  a  model  for 
the  School  of  Design.  Juanita  should  be  the 
model;  her  warm  Southern  beauty  should  in- 
spire the  genius  of  a  great  sculptor,  who  would 


JUAX1TA.  27 


chisel  an  image  of  the  portrait  from  snow-white 
marble.  The  art  critics  of  our  own  country 
would  have  the  place  in  the  scene  that  those 
grave  men  hold  in  the  picture, — his  painting, 
the  work  of  his  own  hand  on  a  rich  marble 
table,  with  the  magnificent  wall  of  the  Academy 
for  a  back-ground,  should  take  the  place  ot  the 
celebrated  statue  in  Fortuney's  painting,  and  he 
knew  that  to  accomplish  all  this  he  had  but  to 
make  an  accurate  copy  of  this  wondrously 
beautiful  girl,  whom  chance  had  thrown  so 
strangely  in  his  way. 

He  was  exhilarated,  elated,  triumphant.  It 
was  as  if  he  had  drunk  new  wine,  and  from  the 
first  he  never  doubted  his  success.  Towards 
evening  Juanita  sprang  upon  Jack's  back,  and 
riding  in  and  out  among  her  truant  herd,  was 
soon  threading  her  way  through  the  valley  to 
her  father's  ranche,  where  she  and  the  cattle 


28  JUAN1TA. 


always  sought  shelter  for  the  night. 

Hewitt  followed  behind  her  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, and  upon  arriving  at  the  straggling 
village,  where  a  dozen  adobe  huts  surrounded 
a  tiny  plaza,  and  a  very  small  chapel  of  some- 
what rude,  though  superior  architecture,  lifted 
its  gray  walls  high  above  the  houses,  was 
interested  to  see  Juanita  drive  her  herd  into  a 
rude  shed,  spring  gracefully  from  Jack's  back, 
give  him  food  and  water,  and  then  reappear 
tripping  down  the  path  with  a  great  goat-skin 
water-jar  on  her  head,  from  which  she  had  re- 
moved her  broad  straw  hat,  to  make  room  for 
it.  It  was  sunset  now,  and  her  day's  work  was 
done.  She  might  loiter  by  the  spring  quite  as 
long  as  she  liked,  only  returning  in  time  for  old 
Jose  and  his  sons  to  have  a  long  fresh  draught 
of  the  sweet  mountain  water  before  they 
sought  their  dingy  blankets,  and  sleep.  The 


JU  ANITA.  29 


spring  was  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the 
house,  an  unconscionable  distance  Juanita  had 
always  thought  it,  but  to-night  Ned  Hewitt 
met  her  half  way  down  the  path,  and  no  walk 
had  ever  seemed  so  short  or  pleasant. 

It  was  near  nine  o'clock  when  they  returned 
and  Hewitt  accompanied  the  girl  to  the  brow 
of  the  hill,  back  of  which  lay  her  father's 
house,  carrying  the  water  for  her,  that  she 
might  see,  he  said,  how  men  bore  the  burdens 
out  in  the  world,  and  smiling  at  the  dexterity 
with  which  she  finally  took  it  from  him  and 
swung  it  lightly  to  the  top  of  her  pretty  head. 
With  some  difficulty  he  made  her  understand 
that  he  was  a  painter ;  one  who  made  pictures, 
you  know,  with  a  brush,  on  canvas ; — but  what 
did  she  know  of  such  things  ?  he  said  to  him- 
self. Pshaw!  why  had  he  not  brought  his 
brush  and  palette  up  the  hill  from  the  little  inn, 


3O  JUANITA. 


that  he  might  have  given  practical  illustrations 
of  his  subject  ?  Juanita  looked  puzzled.  A 
picture — a  face — her  face?  Oh!  yes;  some- 
thing like  those  lovely  things  the  padre  had 
brought  from  Denver,  but  they  were  of  saints 
and  crucifixes,  and  one  was  an  image  of  the 
Blessed  Saviour  nailed  to  the  Cross ;  would  he 
make  her  look  like  that,  or  like  that  other  sweet 
image  of  the  Holy  Virgin? 

Hewitt  smiled  again.  No;  she  would  look 
like  none  of  these,  but  only  like  her  lovely  self. 
Would  she  give  him  a  sitting?  that  is,  could 
the  cattle  take  care  of  themselves  for  an  hour 
in  the  morning  while  he  painted  her  sweet  face. 

Yes,  she  understood  at  last.  Her  dark  eyes 
glowed  with  pleasure,  and  a  soft  blush  came 
over  her  bright  face,  that  made  Hewitt's  nerves 
thrill  with  a  new  sense  of  her  beauty.  They 
would  ride  out  of  the  village  in  the  early  morn- 


JU  ANITA.  31 


ing,  she  said,  and  when  she  had  disposed  of  the 
cattle,  he  might  paint  her  for  hours,  if  he  wished 
only  she  wanted  to  look  like  the  Holy  Virgin, 
and  could  he  not  paint  Jack  somewhere  in  the 
picture  too?  Jack  and  the  Holy  Virgin!  Oh! 
Juanita,  Juanita !  I  fear  those  two  images  held 
somewhat  equal  places  in  the  heathen  darkness 
of  your  young  heart!  but  I  would  have  less  deli- 
cacy than  Ned  Hewitt  if  I  were  to  smile  over 
your  droll  request,  for  the  artist  only  looked  at 
her  in  his  usually  kind  way,  and  tried  to  make 
her  understand  that  if  he  could  get  all  the  sweet 
purity  of  her  face  within  the  lines  of  his  picture 
it's  loveliness  would  far  surpass  that  of  all  the 
saints  in  Christendom. 

And  Juanita  filled  with  a  sense  of  something 
new  and  beautiful  in  her  gray  life,  went  slowly 
over  the  hill  with  the  tinaja,  and  scarcely  mind- 
ed the  scolding  her  harsh  step-mother  gave  her 


32  JUANITA. 


for  having  stayed  so  long  at  the  spring,  and 
curled  herself  up  on  her  heap  of  straw,  to  sleep 
as  she  had  never  slept  before  in  all  her  life,  and 
dream  of  pictures,  and  saints,  and  Jack ;  but 
most  of  all  of  Ned  Hewitt,  who  seemed  always 
hovering  everywhere,  forever  telling  the  mean- 
ing of  things,  and  smiling  the  same  sweet,  frank 
smile  through  all  time. 

And  so  all  that  long  white  summer  in  San 
Luis  Valley,  these  two  came  and  went  from  the 
village  to  the  mesa,  and  Hewitt  carried  both 
the  tinaja  and  the  fagots  for  Juanita,  that  she 
might  see,  as  he  said,  how  women  were  cared 
for  in  his  World;  and  I  imagine  her's  had  been 
a  very  strange  nature  indeed,  had  not  all  these 
little  kindnesses,  the  first  she  had  ever  known, 
not  sunk  into  her  heart,  as  grateful,  cooling 
water  sinks  into  dry,  parched  soil. 

Hewitt  was  as  great  an  anomaly  to  Juanita 


jr  ANITA.  33 


as  she  was  to  him,  and  so  each  in  his  way 
making  studies  of  the  other,  the  summer  soon 
passed  away,  and  the  crimson  and  brown  and 
gold  of  autumn  was  creeping  into  the  mountain 
foliage,  before  the  sittings  were  finished,  and  the 
elaborate  sketches  ready  for  painting.  During 
all  those  long,  happy  days  Juanita  had  nearly 
forgotten  all  her  small  miseries,  going  about  as 
though  in  a  dream,  maintaining  a  silence  for 
the  most  part,  even  with  Hewitt,  who  invariably 
rallied  her  upon  it,  and  thought,  in  his  careless 
way,  it  must  be  the  girl's  natural  timidity  that 
kept  her  so  quiet  in  the  presence  of  a  stranger, 
but  I  am  not  at  all  sure  that  wras  the  reason, 
and  I  think,  on  the  whole,  perhaps  old  lazy 
Jack,  who  watched  her  with  so  much  kindly 
interest  that  summer,  understood  her  moods 
better  than  did  the  artist  who  was  engaged  in 
studying  every  changing  expression  of  her 


34  JU  ANITA. 


face.  Juanita  had  never  been  so  delighted  with 
anything  as  she  was  with  the  scarlet  plush  and 
cloth  of  gold;  upon  first  seeing  it  she  had 
clapped  her  hands  and  danced  about  like  a 
child,  and  when  the  sketches  were  finished, 
Hewitt  had  given  her  the  rich  stuffs  for  her 
own,  and  had  added  to  the  gift,  the  golden 
snakes  he  had  coiled  about  her  arms,  and  the 
great  jewelled  pins  which  were  to  hold  up  the 
heavy  masses  of  her  hair  in  the  picture. 
Juanita's  gratitude  for  these  s-uperb  gifts  had 
been  as  pure  and  simple  as  a  child's,  but  the 
padre  had  come  upon  her,  as  she  walked  across 
the  plaza  with  them  on  her  arm,  and  had  bid- 
den her  restore  them  to  the  giver,  with  so 
much  sternness  in  his  face  and  voice,  that  she 
had  flown  in  terror  to  the  little  inn  where 
Hewitt  lived,  and  begged  him  with  many  sobs 
to  take  them  back. 


JT  ANITA.  35 


That  night  the  padre  came  to  old  Jose's  hut, 
and  while  Juanita  tossed  uneasily  on  her  rude 
bed,  the  two  men  sat  on  the  wooden  bench 
outside  the  door,  and  she  heard  them  mutter- 
ing low  imprecations  against  the  vile  Americano, 
who  dared  to  trifle  with  the  daughter  of  the 
colony. 

"The  girl  was  always  a  fool!"  Jose  said. 
Had  he  not  told  the  padre  now  nearly  seven- 
teen years  ago,  how  the  saints  had  cursed  him 
in  sending  him  a  daughter? 

This  and  many  other  similar  remarks,  fell 
upon  Juanita's  ear,  as  she  lay  in  her  close  cor- 
ner, and  knew  her  father  and  the  priest  were 
plotting  against  the  fair  stranger.  Oh !  what 
made  her  heart  ache  s-o,  this  long  dreadful 
night?  why  did  she  start  at  every  sound  as  if 
pursued  by  the  Evil  One  himself?  Had  she  not 
her  beads  and  her  little  crucifix,  and  did  not 


36  JUANITA. 


the  Holy  Virgin  know  how  innocent  she  was? 
Had  she  not  always  been  regular  at  mass,  at 
vespers,  at  confessional?  And  what  if  they 
killed  this  fair  stranger,  in  their  hard  savage 
wrath,  which  when  aroused,  knew  no  such 
thing  as  mercy?  He  would  not  be  the  first 
Americano  who  had  accidentally  (?)  fallen  over 
a  precipice  in  this  wild  desolate  region,  since 
the  hated  invasion  of  the  steam-horse,  and  even 
if  she  had  loved  him  a  little — Bah !  he  had  never 
spoken  to  her  of  love,  what  was  she  thinking 
of?  true  he  had  once  or  twice  touched  the  tips 
of  her  fingers  with  his  lips,  but  what  was  that? 
Juanita  was  used  to  the  hot  love-making  of  the 
South.  Thus  she  reasoned  with  herself  the 
whole  night  through,  but  when  the  morning 
dawned  she  knew  it  was  of  no  avail ;  knew  that 
her  heart  had  gone  out  unasked  to  a  hated 
Americano,  and  that  her  future  could  but  be 


JUAXITA.  37 


one  of  wretched  penitence.  Rising  softly,  as 
the  sun  came  streaming  in  at  the  little  greasy 
window,  half  blind  with  grief  and  terror  lest 
she  should  disturb  her  father's  slumbers,  and 
so  catch  the  first  burst  of  that  fiery  wrath,  which 
she  knew  must  soon  descend  upon  her  luckless 
head,  she  left  the  house,  and  sought  out  the 
chapel,  where  she  sank  upon  the  stone  floor 
before  her  favorite  saint,  pouring  out  her  burst- 
ing heart  in  such  an  eloquence  of  prayer,  that 
one  might  almost  have  fancied  the  gaudy  red 
and  blue  saints  on  the  wall  were  shedding  tears 
of  pity,  and  that  the  thorn-crowned  Christ  in 
the  altar  window  was  sorrowing  over  her,  as 
over  the  one  sinner  that  repenteth. 

"  Senorita,  why  do  you  cry  ?  " 

The  girl  started  shudderingly  as  with  a 
new  fear,  but  it  was  only  Ned  Hewitt,  standing 
there  in  the  purple  glory  of  the  altar  window, 


38  JUANITA. 


through  which  the  morning  sun  was  throwing 
long  bright  shadows  on  his  fair  hair. 

He  was  dressed  as  if  for  a  journey.  He 
was  going  away,  he  said,  and  had  come  to  bid 
the  Senorita  farewell.  Why  did  she  cry?  Was 
she  in  trouble?  Could  he  help  her  in  any  way 
before  he  went?  Ah  !  she  was  lovelier  than  ever, 
now  that  he  must  leave  her,  he  said.  Would 
she  think  of  him  sometimes  when  he  was 
gone? 

The  girl  had  risen  from  her  knees,  and  was 
leaning  heavily  against  one  of  the  stone  pillars 
of  the  chapel.  Yes,  he  was  going  out  of  her 
life  forever,  and  there  would  be  left  only  the 
Virgin,  and  Jack,  and — 

Hark !  there  are  footsteps ! 

"  Fly  Senor!"  Juanita  cries.  "My  father,  and 
the  padre —  " 

And  thus  it  was  that  Ned  Hewitt  returned 


JUANITA.  39 


so  suddenly  to  New  York,  where  some  six 
months  later,  the  dream  of  that  mid-summer 
day  was  realized,  for  Juanita's  portrait  gained 
him  the  desired  admission  to  the  Academy, 
and  for  a  time  he  was  prince  of  good  fellows 
among  all  the  young  American  artists. 

There  on  the  rich  wall  the  portrait  hangs 
in  all  its  glowing  beauty ;  its  rosy  lips  parted, 
just  as  they  were  that  hot  mid-summer  day  so 
long  ago,  when  he  wrapped  the  scarlet  plush 
and  cloth  of  gold  about  her,  and  wound  the 
golden  snakes  on  her  lovely  arms.  Like  the 
original  it  is  very  beautiful,  and  no  visitor  to 
the  Academy  ever  comes  away  without  that 
sweet  image  impressed  upon  his  heart. 

Most  people  fancy  it  is  an  ideal  sketch  of  a 
Spanish  princess,  and  Ned  Hewitt  tells  no 
tales.  Often  as  he  stands  before  it,  his  own 
eyes  fill  with  tears  that  he  is  forced  to  dry  up- 


4O  JUANITA. 


on  the  approach  of  his  children,  or  his  lady- 
wife.  The  critics  have  discovered  that  he  has 
some  talent,  but  he  knows  that  strive  as  he 
will,  he  can  never  hope  to  equal  his  portrait  of 
Juanita.  Impulses  like  that  do  not  come  twice 
in  a  life-time,  and  perhaps  after  all  he  loved 
her.  Who  knows? 

Mrs.  Hewitt,  nee  Miss  Fanny  Gray,  would,  I 
am  sure,  give  a  negative  answer  to  so  strange  a 
question,  and  so  you  and  I  had  best  not  ask  it, 
but  rather  content  ourselves  with  fancies. 

And  Juanita? 

Far  away  in  Santa  Fe,  where  the  summers 
are  even  longer  and  hotter  than  they  are  in 
San  Luis  Valley,  where  the  glare  of  the  bright 
August  sun  beats  down  so  pitilessly  on  the 
rough  stones  of  the  plaza,  and  the  white  walls 
of  a  convent  rise  among  the  green  leaves  of  great 
trees,  lives  a  beauteous  woman  whose  sweet 


JU  ANITA.  41 


sad  face  looks  wonderingly  out  at  the  visitor, 
from  the  garb  of  a  nun. 

Here  in  the  convent  yard,  a  mule  now  well 
advanced  in  years,  is  grazing  quietly  on  the 
rich  herbage,  and  presently  the  woman  comes 
slowly  out  to  caress  him,  and  feed  him  broken 
dainties  from  her  hand. 

It  is  the  penance  the  two  are  doing  for  that 
Portrait  of  a  Lady. 


FANCIES  OF  THE  SNOW. 


FANCIES  OF  THE  SNOW. 

r* 

/ONDER  why  it  is  that  snow  has 

;  • 

such  a  softening  influence  over  every  - 
'  thing?  Last  night  when  I  retired 
there  was  a  high  wind,  an  overcast 
sky,  and  people  were  hurried  hither 
and  thither  whether  they  would  or  no.  The 
city  looked  so  dismal  that  I  was  glad  to  lower 
my  curtains  and  draw  my  easy-chair  still  nearer 
the  blazing  fire,  where  my  book-rest  and  a 
steaming  glass  stood  in  readiness  on  the  hearth. 
The  firelight  threw  most  cheerful  shadows 
into  the  corners  of  my  cosy  room,  but  some- 
how I  knew  the  whole  household  was  in  an  ill- 
humor,  knew  that  the  landlady  was  in  the 


46  FANCIES    OF    THE    SNOW. 

housekeeper's  room  grumbling  over  the  ad- 
vanced price  of  produce ;  that  her  daughter  was 
impatiently  dawdling  over  a  book  she  could  not 
understand;  that  the  three  students  whose  room 
is  just  opposite  mine,  were  wrangling  over  the 
relative  values  of  angles  and  triangles ;  •  that 
cook  and  housemaid  were  not  on  such  affec- 
tionate terms  as  one  might  have  wished ;  and 
that  I,  myself,  was  so  nervous  and  irritable  that 
I  started  as  if  shot  from  the  mouth  of  a  cannon 
every  time  one  of  those  great  blasts  came  howl- 
ing down  the  chimney,  and  poking  its  nose 
into  the  secret  corners  of  my  apartment. 

When  I  think  of  last  night  now,  I  am  aware 
that  my  room  must  have  been  very  cheerful  in 
the  warm  glow  of  the  wood-fire,  with  my  fav- 
orite authors  looking  down  so  kindly  on  me 
from  their  places  on  the  shelves,  and  those 
priceless  paintings  of  Bonheur's  and  of  Land- 


FANCIES    OF   THE   SNOW.  47 

seer's  brightening  the  whole  room  with  their 
cheery  presence. 

I  know  now  that  I,  like  the  other  members 
of  this  silly  household,  should  learn  to  exercise 
more  control  over  my  truant  nerves  than  to  let 
the  howling  of  the  wind  and  the  blackness  of 
the  sky  upset  me  so. 

I  dare  say  if  we  had  all  been  carried  to  that 
windy  corner,  and  had  our  physical  beings  up- 
set in  that  darksome  puddle  as  our  poor  washer- 
woman had,  we  would  have  come  back  to  our 
rooms  quite  satisfied  writh  books  and  pictures, 
pens,  music  and  needle-work ;  but  although 
when  one  is  in  a  cheerful  mood  he  -has  so  many 
resources  of  enjoyment  within  nimself,  I  will 
lay  a  wager  that  when  the  wind  rises  again  we 
shall  all  be  in  quite  as  bad  a  humor  as  we  were 
last  night,  and  yet  this  morning  no  living  thing 
could  be  any  brighter  or  happier  than 


48  FANCIES    OF    THE    SNOW. 

every  individual  member  of  this  house.  Out- 
doors the  snow  has  transformed  all  the 
houses  into  crystal  temples,  all  the  fences  into 
walls  of  solid  pearl,  and  all  the  minor  objects 
into  the  softest,  daintiest  statuary.  In  my  land- 
lady's yard  the  most  familiar  objects  assume 
the  semblance  of  artistic  creations,  and  the  long 
rows  of  old  pails  and  tubs  long  since  fallen  in- 
to disuse,  their  rude  outlines  softened  by  this 
fleecy  covering,  take  on  the  shapely  forms  of 
tiny  crystal  pyramids  and  reflect  a  thousand 
waves  of  colored  light  in  the  bright  sunshine. 
In  the  breakfast-room  the  people  are  all 
smiles  and  pleasantries ;  the  boys  have  contrived 
to  untangle  the  angles,  the  landlady  has 
evidently  some  secret  cause  for  encourage- 
ment, and  the  housemaid  brings  in  the  muffins 
with  more  grace  than  she  has  used  the  whole 
winter. 


FANCIES    OF    THE    SNOW.  49 

And  so  I  am  constrained  to  think  that  the 
Snow  brings  a  host  of  peaceful  influences  in 
her  great  white  mantle,  with  which  she  covers 
all  the  earth  and  deals  out  kindness  to  both 
glad  and  sorry  souls  in  entirely  equal  propor- 
tions, and  as  I  gaze  abroad  at  all  her  wondrous 
loveliness,  it  seems  to  me  she  is  a  spirit  of  the 
air  sent  to  purify  the  lives  of  men. 

I  have  seldom  heard  of  a  murder  having 
been  committed  out  among  those  pure  white 
drifts,  where  a  drop  of  blood  in  the  winter 
sunlight  would  proclaim  the  horror  of  the  deed 
through  the  entire  course  of  a  long  day. 

I  recall  few  cases  of  starvation  throughout 
the  country  when  the  snow  is  on  the  ground, 
for  this  is  the  season  of  the  year  when  the 
wants  of  the  poor  are  more  carefully  consider- 
ed than  at  any  other  time.  I  think  statistics 
will  show  there  are  fewer  suicides  committed 


5O  FANCIES   OF   THE   SNOW. 

through  long"  white  winters  than  at  mid-sum- 
mer, when  the  terrible  heats  drive  men  as  well 
as  dog's  to  desperate  deeds,  or  in  chill  dreary 
November,  when  life  and  courage  seem  to 
ooze  out  with  the  early  darkness  and  the  damp 
wet  mornings. 

And  so  Fair  Spirit  of  the  season,  sweet 
emblem  of  purity  and  harbinger  of  peace,  all 
hail  to  thee !  To  me  thou  art  the  most  wel- 
come phase  of  all  our  many  weathers.  I  can 
imagine  lovers  plighting  their  troth,  and  moth- 
ers kissing  their  children  at  the  first  indication 
of  thy  coming,  so  near  akin  art  thou  to  all 
that  is  true  and  beautiful  in  life. 

It  seems  to  me  that  clear  snowy  weather 
should  be  the  great  festival  time  of  the  whole 
year,  and  if  I  were  managing  the  universe,  I 
would  set  all  the  married  people  at  roast  tur- 
key and  plum-pudding,  all  the  children  at 


FANCIES    OF    THE    SNOW.  5  I 

blind-man's  buff  and  sugar-plums,  and  all  the 
lovers  speeding  miles  away  over  the  country 
in  that  sweet  ecstasy  of  young  confession  that 
can  never  know  cold  or  distance. 

Then  I  would  fill  all  the  theaters  with  grand 
opera,  and  I  would  open  the  doors  alike  to 
rich  and  poor.  I  would  call  in  my  pale-faced 
seamstress  who  always  weeps  when  she  hears 
sweet  sounds,  so  exquisite  an  ear  has  she  for 
melody.  I  would  beckon  yonder  hard-worked 
clerk  who  is  trudging  so  wearily  to  his  scanty 
home,  after  his  long  toilsome  day  on  an  office- 
stool ;  I  would  empty  school-houses  of  hund- 
reds of  weary  teachers,  whose  whole  lives  are 
but  one  sad  story  of  cruel  self-repression;  I 
would  call  together  dozens  of  shabby  clergy- 
men— poor  souls  in  those  shiny  thread-bare 
coats,  that  seem  to  have  endured  since  the  be- 
ginning of  time.  Here  and  there  I  would 


52  FANCIES    OF   THE   SNOW. 


select  a  struggling  ambitious  student  or  a  poor 
friendless  factory  girl  into  whose  eyes  the  tears 
would  spring  at  the  touch  of  a  kindly  hand. 

I  would  not  take  no  for  an  answer.  I  would 
drive  them  all  in  at  those  gilded  portals,  just 
as  I  would  drive  that  flock  of  lambs  I  love  so 
much  out  at  my  farm,  and  when  I  had  seen 
them  all  comfortably  seated  I  would  assume 
the  shape  of  a  good  Brownie,  that  I  might 
hover  in  those  stained  windows,  and  go  off 
into  uncontrollable  laughter,  when  I  saw  the 
pale  faces  of  these  human  Lambs  all  flushed 
and  joyous  with  the  music. 

I  would  go  to  the  greatest  living  prima  don- 
na and  say,  "  Madame,  at  one  time  you  were 
very  heartless.  You  allowed  a  poor  Italian  di- 
rector to  die  over  here  in  St.  Louis  for  the  mere 
want  of  plain  food  and  warm  lodgings,  and  Oh ! 
for  shame,  he  was  your  brother!  No,  I  cannot 


FANCIES    OF    THE    SNOW.  53 

forgive  you  for  that — but  this  is  snow-time, 
carnival-time — and  now  I  hope  you  will  sing 
for  love  to  these  poor  people  as  you  have  never 
sung  for  money  in  all  your  life  !" 

Then,  too,  I  confess  I  should  enjoy  a  sprink- 
ling of  rich  people  in  my  theatres,  just  enough 
to  give  color  and  tone  to  all  those  pale  faces 
and  sad  eyes  of  my  poor  Lambs.  I  should  in- 
vite a  certain  queenly  woman  whom  I  know,  to 
don  all  her  rich  furs,  to  fasten  costly  jewels  on 
her  shapely  arms,  and  throw  a  mantle  of  heavy 
satin  about  her  form,  and  then  when  she  came 
sweeping  her  rich  dress  into  the  place,  I  would 
bid  her  bow  and  smile  to  each  poor  soul  who 
looked  at  her  in  silent  admiration ;  and  if  any- 
where in  this  crowded  city  I  could  find  a  man 
who  I  really  believed  was  created  in  God's 
image — a  man  who  had  never  wronged  the  wo- 
man who  loved  him,  or  scoffed  at  the  entreaties 


54          .  FANCIES    OF    THE    SNOW. 

of  a  helpless  child  whose  right  it  was  to  call 
him  father,  I  would  say,  "  Come  to  my  temple 
and  be  king  of  all  the  multitude  !" 

And  I  would  call  them  together,  he  and 
she,  in  some  high  place  which  should  pass  for 
a  throne,  and  I  would  say  to  them,  "  Lead  these 
poor  people  to-day,  in  all  gentleness  and  kind- 
ness for  their  own  best  good,"  and  then  I  would 
relapse  into  a  Brownie  again  and  repair  to  my 
purple  window,  there  to  hold  my  tiny  sides  in 
convulsions  of  the  most  elfish  mirth  ;  and  when 
the  concert  was  ended  and  the  poor  dear  Lambs 
came  out  of  the  theatre  all  flushed  and  tremb- 
ling with  new  joy,  I  would  go  to  my  king,  he 
who  is  looking  so  fondly  into  the  depths  of  the 
sweet  eyes  of  that  queenly  woman  whom  I  hope 
soon  to  make  his  wife,  and  I  would  say  to  him, 
"  Tell  them  to  remember !  Another  genuine 
opera  next  carnival-time,  when  the  first  "snow 


FANCIES    OF    THE    SNOW.  55 

falls  and  the  year  is  wrapped  in  virgin  white!" 
Thus  do  I  dream  away  the  snow-time,  while 
all  unheeded  my  idle  pen  lies  quietly  in  my 
desk.,  and  my  foolish  brain  goes  wool-gathering 
into  space. 


PICTURES  IN  THK  KIRK-LIGHT. 


PICTURES  IN  THE  FIRE-LIGHT. 

HEN  all  things  else  fail  me;  when 
my  books  have  no  more  signifi- 
cance to  me  than  if  I  were  a  blind 
man ;  when  the  bright  colorings 
of  my  pictures  always  irritate  and 
annoy  me  until  I  am  forced  to  turn  their  sweet 
faces  to  the  wall ;  when  the  sound  of  a  piano  is 
to  me  like  the  noise  of  brazen  trumpets,  and  the 
sight  of  pen  and  paper  makes  me  shudder ; 
when  my  poor  head  is  throbbing  with  a  thou- 
sand little  sharp  pains — like  the  prickings  of 
fine  needles — then  it  is  that  I  love  to  bar  my 
door,  inhospitable  soul  that  I  am,  and  draw  my 


60  PICTURES    IN    THE    FIRE-LIGHT. 

low  rocker  before  the  great,  open,  blazing  fire 
that  is  my  one  consolation  in  time  of  trouble. 

Out-doors,  the  dark  unfriendly  weather  may 
do  its  best  to  make  me  wretched;  whole  rivers 
of  rain  and  hail  may  dash  about  my  window- 
panes;  the  printer  may  be  howling  for  copy, 
and  my  poor  laundress  knocking  in  vain  for 
the  sum  I  have  not  yet  earned;  still  the  fire- 
light remains  with  me,  to  soothe  my  poor 
weary  nerves,  and  in  a  low  monotonous  under- 
tone, to  sing  me  sweet  simple  songs  that  I 
have  long  since  learned  to  love. 

There  is  something  so  weird  about  the  great 
ruddy  shadows  on  the  hearth — something  so 
strange  in  this  dumb  sense  of  companionship, 
that  if  I  were  in  an  analytical  mood,  I  would 
strive  to  discover  a  reason  for  this  state  of 
things,  and  in  so  doing  would  of  course  de- 
stroy all  the  little  pleasure  this  vague  sense 


PICTURES    IN    THE    FIRE-LIGHT.  6 1 

affords  me,  for  so  soon  as  a  thing  is  reduced  to 
a  common-sense  basis,  just  so  soon  do  all  its 
beauties  take  to  themselves  wings. 

No,  I  do  not  want  to  know  any  reasons  for 
anything  to-night.  Alas !  do  I  not  follow  out 
a  course  of  reasoning  through  all  my  dreary, 
hard-worked  days?  I  will  not  even  allow  to 
myself,  that  if  I  sit  idly  here  all  this  long  night, 
I  shall  have  nothing  accomplished  by  morning, 
and  will  consequently  be  in  a  worse  humor  to- 
morrow. 

I  tell  you,  so  perverse  a  sprite  am  I,  I  will 
not  be  responsible  to-night,  and  if  some  mod- 
ern Atlas  gets  into  trouble,  endeavoring  to  lift 
the  whole  world,  I  cannot  help  it.  I  am  only 
a  poor  weak  creature,  and  certainly  not  to 
blame — and  so  I  bar  them  all  out,  that  in  com- 
mon parlance,  I  may  sit  and  mope,  my  elbows 
on  my  knees,  and  go  over  all  my  little  griev- 


62  PICTURES    IN    THE    FIRE-LIGHT. 

ances  that  I  have  years  ago  committed  to 
memory,  and  make  savage  faces  at  the  mirror 
for  revealing  all  these  ugly  wrinkles  in  my  face, 
and  all  these  Long  silver  threads  in  my  hair, 
for  Father  Time  makes  no  exceptions  in  my 
case,  nor  waits  for  me  an  hour. 

Ah!  how  nervous  I  am,  I  will  turn  the  mir- 
ror to  the  wall,  as  I  turned  my  pictures — there 
it  is  done,  and  as  I  resume  my  chair,  a  face 
actually  beckons  me  from  the  fire !  No,  I  am 
not  dreaming.  Only  comfortable,  happy  peo- 
ple dream.  I — I — alas!  it  has  ever  been  my 
fate  in  life  to  be  always  awake,  always  on  the 
alert.  And  yet — ah !  it  is  not  only  a  face,  'tis 
an  entire  figure  of  a  girl,  a  very  bud  of  open- 
ing womanhood.  A  little  primrose  face,  with 
deep  violet  eyes,  a' head  of  long  golden  curls, 
and  a  slight  delicate  figure,  full  of  easy  grace, 
such  as  painters  love. 


PICTURES    IN    THE    FIRE-LIGHT.  63 

She  stretches  two  tiny  hands  toward  me,  I 
can  see  her  red  lips  move,  and  hear  above  the 
sobbing  of  the  fire,  the  sweet  word  sister,  and 
then  a  flood  ot  memories  sweep  through  my 
heart,  and  I  see  again  the  old  farm-house  where 
we  lived  with  our  sainted  mother.  Again,  to- 
ward the  close  of  a  winter's  day,  we  have 
gone  out  on  the  ice-pond,  and  my  sister's  little 
feet  have  broken  through  a  thin  place  in  the 
ice,  and  I — may  God  forgive  me,  have  lost  a 
chance  of  succor  by  allowing  myself  to  go  in- 
to such  a  frenzy  of  fright  as  to  lose  my  voice, 
and  to  be  unable  to  call  for  help. 

All  my  life  this  thing  has  haunted  me ;  it 
has  made  me  old  before  my  time,  and  paralyzed 
my  energies  in  the  prime  of  my  years, — but 
only  see  how  she  smiles  at  me,  how  she  reaches 
out  her  arms  as  if  to  fold  me  to  her  heart !  I 
think  she  must  see  how  lonely  and  miserable 


64  PICTURES    IN    THE    FIRE-LIGHT. 

I  am  to-night,  and  the  angels  must  long  since 
have  named  her  Pity,  for, — she  is  going — sorry 
indeed  am  I  to  spare  her,  so  different  she  al- 
ways was  from  other  mortals,  and  now  she  has 
flown  back  to  Spirit-Land,  but  not  until  a  soft 
little  hand  has  been  laid  on  my  fevered  brow, 
and  a  sweet  voice  has  bidden  me  take  courage. 
And  so  I  am  alone  again,  and  were  it  not  for 
the  fire-light  I  know  not  what  would  become  of 
me  this  sorry  winter-time  of  my  age  ;  but  see  ! 
there  comes  another  picture.  How  the  flames 
leap  up,  as  if  to  give  it  royal  welcome.  Thank 
Heaven  !  'tis  the  image  of  my  mother.  Now 
by  God's  grace  shall  I  be  preserved  for  all  time 
from  wrong-doing,  now  shall  Right  be  my 
watchword  and  Truth  my  weapon  of  earthly 
warfare.  Oh !  can  you  not  see  how  beautiful 
it  is,  that  brown  wrinkled  face  with  its  waves  of 
silvery  hair,  and  its  sweet  brown  eyes  gaz- 


PICTURES    IX    THE    FIRE-LIGHT.  65 


ing  at  me  in  so  much  wistfulness  and  love. 
*'  Mother,"  I  cry,  "  Only  come  near  me  once 
more  !  touch  my  proud,  foolish  head.  Teach 
me  as  when  I  was  a  little  child,  lessons  of  pa- 
tience and  forbearance.  Bid  my  wicked  heart 
be  still, — show  me  how  I  may  direct  my  course 
of  life  into  usefulness  ! " 

Once  more  as  in  the  old  days  I  feel  that  hal- 
lowed touch ;  once  more  I  am  become  as  a  little 
child,  and  feel  the  wrinkled  cheek  of  that  dear 
saint  on  mine  in  one  long,  lingering  caress.  Ah  ! 
dear  God,  cannot  you  leave  me  my  mother  ?  I 
who  am  so  old  and  worn  and  tempest-tossed  on 
the  rude  sea  of  Life  ?  You  will  not  take  her 
again,  you  will  leave  her  to  me  that  I  may  care 
for  her  always,  and  cross  her  dear  hands  on  her 
breast  at  last,  just  as  I  crossed  them  in  that  old 
farrn-house  the  night  her  sweet  soul  went  out 
across  the  dark  river  of  Eternity.  But  the  low 


66  PICTURES    IN    THE    FI RE-LIGHT. 

monotone  of  the  fire  only  sings,  no,  poor  soul, 
this  may  not  be  so  with  you  ;  and  presently  she 
is  gone,  and  I  must  needs  bow  my  head  in 
humble  resignation.  Yet  I  cannot  but  be  hap- 
pier that  I  have  seen  these  dear  faces  for  the 
first  time  in  so  many  years,  that  they  have  come 
back  to  me  from  their  spirit  home,  as  one  crosses 
a  hot,  weary  desert  that  he  may  fetch  water  to 
one  he  loves. 

And  thus  it  seems  even  in  the  new  life,  in  the 
life  everlasting,  they  love  me  still ;  I,  who  was 
ever  cold  and  imperious  ;  I  who  have  caused 
them  so  many  bitter  tears,  so  many  hours  of 
sorrow — surely  I  have  much  to  be  thankful  for ; 
I  will  mend  my  ways  and  let  the  sweet  incense 
of  love  into  my  darksome  heart. 

But  what  is  this  ?  The  picture  of  a  young 
man  ?  A  frank,  boyish  face  with  soft  blue  eyes. 
A  man's  face  to  come  to  me  at  this  late  day, 


PICTURES    IN    THE    FIRE-LIGHT.  67 

like  some  old  legend  or  story  out  of  Fairy- 
land? Let  me  see — ah!  yes,  I  remember  now, 
it  is  the  face  of  him  who  was  my  lover,  and 
but  for  whose  untimely  death  in  the  cruel  wars, 
I  should  have  been  a  happy  wife  to-night,  with 
little  children  hanging  on  my  neck,  and  nest- 
ling in  my  heart  to  keep  it  warm  through  all 
the  cold  of  winter. 

I  remember  what  a  poor  heart-broken  thing 
I  was  in  those  days,  when  his  company  came 
marching  home  without  him,  and  said  he  had 
died  of  starvation  away  off  there  in  that  cruel 
Southern  prison.  Yes,  I  have  missed  him 
very  sadly,  these  twenty  long  years  of  our 
separation,  and  nowr  I  am  old  and  withered, 
and  he  is  still  as  fair  and  young  as  he  was  in 
the  days  of  our  wooing.  Ah !  love,  you  can 
never  know  how  sweet  your  face  is  to  me  now 
as  I  see  it  there  in  the  fire  with  all  the  old-time 


68  PICTURES    IN   THE    FIRE-LIGHT. 

love-light  in  its  bright  eyes.  Can  it  be  you 
are  going  too?  you,  who  have  come  so  much 
farther  than  all  the  rest  to  see  me  ?  you  who  can 
understand,  as  even  the  spirit  of  my  mother 
cannot,  how  weary  are  my  long  days  of  toil, 
how  lonely  my  sleepless  nights,  how  faint  my 
beacon  light  of  hope? 

Yes,  you  know  all  this,  but  you  are  going — 
I  can  see  you  fade  out  of  the  firelight  gradually, 
little  by  little,  just  as  you  faded  out  of  my 
young  life  so  long  ago — but  you  will  see  my 
mother,  love,  and  my  sister,  and  you  will  say 
to  them  "  She  is  so  much  better  for  your  hav- 
ing come,"  and  you  will  save  me  a  place  in 
Spirit-land,  that  I  may  sit  near  you  all,  when 
my  own  turn  comes,  in  the  sweet  after-time — 

It  is  morning  again.     The   cold  white   rays 
of  the  winter  sun  are  streaming  into  my  room. 

I  am  worn  by  my  long  vigil,  famished  by 


PICTURES    IN    THE    FIRE-LIGHT.  69 

the  long  hours  that  have  passed  since  I  tasted 
food,  but  not  for  all  the  palaces  of  the  East, 
not  for  the  wealth  of  kings,  not  for  the  love  of 
rosy  children,  nor  all  the  fabled  gems  of  song 
and  story,  would  I  give  my  pictures  in  the  fire- 
light. 


JUNE  ROSES. 


JUNE  ROSES. 

HAT  a  novel  study  a  quaint  old 
farm-house  is  to  a  young  girl  fresh 
from  the  busy  surroundings  of  her 
city  home.  Her  numerous  pas- 
sionate appeals  for  a  visit  to  the 
country  have  finally  met  with  some  indulgent 
relative's  approval,  and  now,  one  bright  June 
day,  she  finds  herself  actually  transported  to 
what  she  has  ever  dreamed  must  be  pure  Ar- 
cadia— the  quiet  of  a  remote  farm-house.  Fancy 
has  long  pictured  a  cottage  overgrown  with 
clambering  vines  and  all  blooming  things  of  an 
equally  romantic  nature.  What,  then,  is  her 


74  JUNE    ROSES. 


surprise  at  finding  a  long,  low  rambling  red 
house,  with  faded  green  shutters  and  small 
high  windows,  which  look  exactly  like  so  many 
curious  peering  little  eyes  turned  full  upon  her 
as  she  trips  up  the  broad  garden  walk,  making 
a  half  dozen  stops  ere  she  reaches  the  door,  to 
admire  and  examine  the  old-fashioned  plants 
that  grow  so  thickly  about  the  edges  of  those 
venerable  flower  beds  known  as  boxes. 

She  is  charmed  with  the  hearty  welcome  she 
receives  at  the  hands  of  all,  and  with  the  ex- 
treme tidiness  and  orderliness  of  all  the  simple 
household.  She  actually  devours  her  supper 
of  snowy,  home-made  bread,  served  with  the 
sweetest  butter  and  honey;  and  though  she 
stares  a  little  when  the  early  preparations  for 
retiring  commence,  she  has  soon  sunk  to  rest 
amid  the  billowy  softness  of  the  old  four-poster 
and  is  far  away  upon  the  wings  of  those  sweet 


JUNE   ROSES.  75 


dreams  known  only  to    healthy,    happy   girl- 
hood. 

The  wardrobe  she  has  brought  with  her  she 
considers  a  marvel  of  rustic  simplicity,  but 
when  she  bounds  into  the  old  dining-room  in 
the  morning,  clad  in  some  white  soft  stuff,  with 
a  bright  ribbon  at  her  waist  and  a  bunch  of 
dewy,  freshly  gathered  roses  at  her  throat, 
she  electrifies  the  quiet  little  assembly,  which, 
with  one  accord,  bestows  upon  her  a  long,  lin- 
gering look  of  hearty  undisguised  admiration. 
She  has  resolved  to  be  agreeable  to  every  one, 
and,  indeed,  finds  it  an  easy  task  where  every 
one  is  so  agreeable  to  her.  She  praises  the 
country  ham  and  eggs,  ecstacizes  over  the  rich 
cream  as  it  is  generously  lavished  upon  her 
coffee;  and,  in  short,  so  takes  the  whole  table 
by  storm,  that  the  young  farmers,  stalwart 
good-looking  fellows  too,  glance  slyly  at  her 


76  JUNE    ROSES. 


as  they  pass  on  their  way  across  the  wide 
porch  to  the  scene  of  their  daily  labor,  and 
wonder  if  all  city  girls  are  such  as  she. 

Now,  there  is  not  so  much  difference,  per- 
haps, if  the  truth  were  told,  between  the  fair 
daughters  of  the  most  populous  cities  and 
their  very  often  equally  well-favored  country 
cousins.  The  difference  often  lies  wholly  in 
the  surroundings,  and  a  refined  country  girl  is 
not  such  a  rara  avis  as  some  people  suppose 
now-a-days.  If,  added  to  her  general  style  and 
cultured  penetration,  the  city  mouse  had  but 
an  inkling  of  the  country  mouse's  sweet  sim- 
plicity and  substantial  intelligence,  she  might 
bap;  richer  birds  than  she  does,  and  make  a 

o 

living,  talking  ornament  for  a  drawing-room 
that  any  good  man  might  be  proud  to  possess. 
But  her  simplicity  is  too  often  but  the  silliness 
of  affectation,  and  her  intelligence  so  superfi- 


JUNE    ROSES.  77 


cial  as  to  awaken  ridicule  rather  than  esteem. 
The  country  mouse,  on  the  other  hand,  is  un- 
fit for  battle  with  the  world,  from  her  ingenuous 
lack  of  tact  and  a  thorough  inaptness  at  gen- 
eral style,  without  which  a  woman  is  completely 
out  of  Rome  in  these  modern  days. 

But  to  return  to  the  bright  little  lassie  who 
explores  the  treasure-trove  of  an  old  farm- 
house for  the  first  time.  She  flits  all  over  the 
place  from  garret  to  cellar,  before  the  noon  of 
the  first  day's  visit,  displaying  such  an  amount 
of  curiosity  and  asking  questions  so  very  vol- 
ubly as  almost  to  distract  the  sober  house-wife 
and  her  decorous  maidens,  who,  wholly  unused 
to  butterfly  interruptions  like  these,  so  far  forget 
themselves  several  times  as  to  make  grave 
mistakes,  like  using  sugar  for  salt,  and  others 
of  a  similar  nature.  At  these  interesting  junct- 
ures, the  little  lass,  whom  we  will  call  Bright 


JUNE    ROSES. 


Eyes,  invariably  claps  her  hands,  and,  laughing 
merrily,  offers  in  her  wholly  incompetent  way 
to  repair  the  mischief  she  has  so  thoughtlessly 
wrought;  but  the  maids  like  her  in  spite  of  the 
trouble  she  makes  them,  and  of  the  pretty 
coquettish  glances  she  throws  across  the  table 
at  the  boys.  They  carry  a  little  wooden  rocker 
to  the  dairy,  and  let  her  sit  there  in  the  cool,  stone 
building,  while  they  fashion  the  golden  butter 
she  loves  so  well.  And  then  in  the  evening 
when  the  work  is  done,  they  harness  old  Dob- 
bin with  their  own  strong  willing  hands,  and 
take  Miss  Bright  Eyes  for  a  drive  about  the 
neighborhood. 

In  her  kindly  girlish  way  she  studies  every 
face  which  meets  her  view,  and  smiles  so 
sweetly  upon  every  new  rustic  as  wholly  to 
disarm  any  prejudice  which  might  have  existed 
against  that  "city  gal." 


JUNE    ROSES.  79 


She  is  particularly  amused  by  the  great  piles 
of  rag  carpeting  which  the  house-wife  has 
stored  away  in  the  garret,  against  a  time  of 
need,  and  with  the  multitudinous  gayly-colored 
calico  bed  quilts  with  which  every  cupboard 
and  closet  in  the  house  is  literally  pressed  down 
and  running  over. 

She  is  told  that  the  house  was  built  "  forty 
years  ago  last  winter,"  and  that  the  furniture 
stands  in  the  rooms  just  as  it  did  that  happy 
day  when  "  John  brought  me  home  a  proud  and 
blushing  bride."  There  is  a  suspicious  mois- 
ture in  the  good  wife's  eyes,  as  she  saunters 
through  the  house  with  this  bright  young 
thing,  displaying  her  old  and  curious  house- 
hold, for,  in  a  remote  corner,  under  a  faded 
chintz  curtain,  stands  a  low  old-fashioned  cra- 
dle, its  once  snowy  belongings  now  yellow  with 
the  lapse  of  years;  and  a  little  green  grave, 


8<D  JUNE    ROSES. 


with  its  tiny  headstone,  just  outside  the  house 
there  on  the  lawn,  is  all  there  is  left  to  tell  the 
tale  of  the  joyous  young  creature,  who  was 
born  to  be  the  life  and  light  of  the  sombre  old 
farm.  "  Dear  little  thing,"  the  house-wife  says, 
"  an'  she'd  a'been  just  your  age  now.  Law  me, 
how  time  does  fly!" 

The  morning  service  in  the  village  church  is 
a  very  novel  one  to  Bright  Eyes,  who  has  never 
heard  so  much  gospel  and  so  few  resonant  peri- 
ods in  her  life  before,  and  who,  between  the 
strong  doctrine  and  the  funny  bonnets  which 
surround  her  on  all  sides,  is  awed  into  as  com- 
plete an  attentiveness  as  that  of  the  most  rev- 
erent village  church-goer. 

Taking  it  altogether,  the  city  mouse  is  in- 
clined to  think  very  kindly  of  her  country 
cousins,  who  have  given  her  such  a  charming 
week  in  their  midst,  and  who  it  is  hoped,  will 


JUNE    ROSES.  8  I 


be  equally  as  well  pleased  when  Bright  Eyes 
herself  turns  hostess,  and  all  the  charming  pos- 
sibilities of  her  city  home  are  brought  forth  in 
their  behalf. 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE  COTTAGE. 


THE  HONEYSUCKLE  COTTAGE. 


ROM  my  window  I  can  see  the 
ruins  of  a  quaint  little  cottage  set  in 
the  centre  of  a  large  garden  and 
guarded  by  two  giant  elms. 
The  front  garden  is  filled  with  unkept  shrub- 
bery, and  there  are  broken  bits  of  brick  and 
stone  which  mark  the  place  where  a  long,  nar- 
row walk  once  wound  its  way  among  the 
greenery  to  the  door.  The  house  is,  or  has 
been,  an  old-fashioned  cottage,  built  after  the 
old  style,  with  two  tiny  wings  and  long  French 
windows  opening  upon  a  little  piazza,  where  I 
remember  seeing  a  pair  of  lovers  sit  on  summer 
evenings,  beneath  the  shade  of  a  thick  vine  of 


86  THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE. 

honeysuckle,  which,  together,  with  the  other 
shrubbery,  formed  to  my  youthful  imagination 
a  scene  of  pastoral  loveliness. 

I  remember  always  dropping  my  toys  when 
the  twilight  came  on,  and  repairing  to  an  upper 
window,  from  which  point  I  could  observe  the 
lovers  and  the  little  vine-wreathed  house  to  my 
heart's  content,  until  darkness  settled  down  over 
everything  and  I  was  obliged  to  retire  only 
half-satisfied  with  viewing  a  picture  of  which  I 
never  wearied.  Child  as  I  was,  that  little  habita- 
tion had  more  charm  for  me  than  all  the  pomp 
and  glitter  of  the  more  splendid  country-seats 
at  the  other  end  of  the  village. 

I  loved  flowers,  and  the  house  being  so  tiny, 
I  presume  had  the  same  significance  to  me  as 
my  doll-house,  which  I  was  always  placing  in 
the  centre  of  a  piece  of  sward  and  surrounding 
with  twigs  of  roses  broken  from  the  bushes  in 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE.  8/ 

the  door-yard,  in  direct  imitation  of  what  was 
then  known  to  the  villagers  as  The  Honey- 
suckle Cottage. 

Then,  too,  I  used  to  arrange  Tom  and  Sue, 
my  pet  dolls,  after  the  fashion  of  a  tableau,  on 
the  tiny  piazza  of  my  doll-house,  and  between 
the  parted  muslin  curtains  at  the  window  an 
elderly  mother-doll  always  stood,  in  exact  imi- 
tation of  the  lady  who  was  mistress  of  the  cot- 
tage and  the  mother  of  that  sweet  young  thing 
who  sat  through  all  those  long  summer  twilights 
with  the  man  she  loved. 

I  used  to  think  nature  put  the  world  in  order 
for  that  twilight  hour,  the  street  was  always  so 
quiet,  and  the  flowers  so  sleepy  when  the 
young  man  came.  Then  too  the  young  girl 
always  wore  soft  white  draperies  that  used  to 
float  on  the  evening  air  like  the  robes  of  an 
angel,  and  it  always  seemed  to  me,  fair  Luna 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE. 


loved  to  throw  long  shadows  of  real  gold  on 
the  little  cottage,  whereas  the  more  pretentious 
mansions  had  to  content  themselves  with  the 
palest  reflections  of  her  majesty. 

Even  when  it  rained,  the  cottage  never  seem- 
ed shrouded  in  gloom,  as  was  the  wont  of  so 
many  houses  on  our  street.  On  wet  evenings 
a  bright  light  always  shone  in  the  windows, 
and  the  rich  tones  of  the  young  man's  deep 
voice  blended  with  the  sweet,  silvery  ones  of 
the  young  girl,  always  rang  out,  to  the  music 
of  an  old  piano,  making  the  sweetest  accom- 
paniment to  the  patter  of  the  rain-drops.  Some- 
times when  the  rain  ceased,  I  would  see  them 
come  out  in  the  doorway  for  a  moment,  and 
laugh  at  the  poor  sleepy  honeysuckle  who  had 
shut  her  bright  eyes  at  the  first  approach  of 
the  rain-drops.  I  heard  them  say  they  liked 
the  rain,  and  in  fact  I  think  there  were  few 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE.  89 

things  they  disliked,  in  those  brief,  blissful  "sum- 
mers of  their  betrothal. 

I  used  to  run  over  there  in  the  mornings 
when  the  young  girl  was  training  the  honey- 
suckle about  the  lattice,  and  when  the  sunlight 
fell  on  her  golden  hair  I  thought  it  was  heaven's 
kiss  on  that  fair  young  head — she  seemed  so 
much  in  harmony  with  all  the  sweet  silent  in- 
fluences of  earth  and  air.  I  remember  she 
always  welcomed  me  with  a  smile  and  a  kiss, 
and  fed  me  with  little  homely  dainties  made  by 
her  own  hands. 

They  were  all  alone  in  the  world,  she  and 
the  lady,  her  silver-haired  mother,  whose  aged 
expressive  face  told  of  so  many  sorrows  and 
happinesses  in  the  past.  I  believe  they  were 
English  people,  and  that  some  misfortune  had 
brought  them  all  this  long  way  from  home, 
across  the  great  ocean,  to  the  new  wrorld.  The 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE   COTTAGE. 


lady  always  looked  as  if  she  had  just  stepped 
out  of  a  picture,  in  those  soft  gray  silks  with 
the  narrow  lace  ruffles  at  her  throat  and  wrists, 
and  the  young  girl  was  always  in  those  fleecy 
frocks  from  early  spring  until  autumn  came 
again. 

I  think  the  young  man,  who  was  the  young 
girl's  lover,  was  more  to  the  sweet  simple  lives 
of  those  two  dear  women,  than  the  heir 
of  a  throne  can  ever  be  to  his  princess- 
consort,  or  even  to  the  fond,  proud  heart  of 
his  queenly  mother.  It  seemed  they  had 
known  him  a  great  many  years,  and  although 
there  was  no  formality  between  them,  even  a 
child  might  observe  a  refinement  in  their  in- 
tercourse, of  which  Americans  know  so  little. 

I  am  sure  they  never  met  without  that  grave 
sweet  salutation  of  hand-shaking,  although 
their  lips  did  not  always  meet  in  a  warmer 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE.  9! 

caress,  and  the  young  man  always  asked  for 
the  lady,  and  greeted  her  in  the  exact  way  that 
he  would  have  met  his  hostess  in  a  drawing- 
room.  I  wonder  if  people  ever  reflect  upon 
how  far  the  little  refined  attentions  of  social 
life  go  to  make  life  worth  living?  I  am  sure 
it  never  occurred  to  this  simple  trio  that  their 
manners  were  in  any  way  superior  to  those  of 
their  bluff,  hearty  neighbors.  The  lady's  man- 
ners were  simply  those  that  her  mother  had 
taught  her,  and  the  young  girl  could  never 
have  been  otherwise  than  refined,  with  such  a 
mother  as  her's  was,  and  yet  there  was  some- 
thing so  indescribably  charming  in  their  society, 
that  I  used  to  sit  with  them  for  hours  at  a  time, 
until  my  nurse  was  dispatched  to  bring  me 
home.  These  good  people  loved  children,  and 
I  think  they  were  the  only  persons  I  have  ever 
met,  who  in  any  way  understood  or  sympa- 


92  THE    HONEYSUCKLE   COTTAGE. 

thized  with  little  folks,  especially  with  fanciful 
little  folks,  in  all  their  many  real  and  imaginary 
pleasures  and  woes.  I  was  not  at  all  timid  with 
them,  in  fact  they  drew  out  my  thoughts  so 
unknowingly,  that  I  never  realized  I  was  open- 
ing my  heart  to  them  until  long  years  after- 
ward, when  the  lady  and  the  young  girl  had 
become  to  earth  only  a  memory,  and  when 
well  advanced  toward  womanhood,  I  began  to 
cast  about  me  for  friends  such  as  they  had 
been,  to  find  not  only  an  entire  absence  of  any- 
thing in  human  nature  like  them,  but  also  a 
doubly  aching  void  inasmuch  as  these  sweet 
souls  had  been,  but  were  not 

I  remember  feeling  an  intense  jealousy  of 
the  young  man,  invariably  running  home 
so  soon  as  he  made  his  appearance,  and  I  must 
say  that  while  this  singular  freak  would  have 
created  merriment  in  almost  any  other,  the 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE.  93 

young  girl  always  looked  grieved  at  my  foolish 
pique,  and  kissed  me  again  and  again  to  assure 
me  of  her  affection.  The  young  man,  too, 
always  tried  to  conciliate  me,  but  my  instincts 
were  too  strong;  I  knew  whose  heart  he  filled, 
and  so  I  soon  began  to  time  my  visits  in .  the 
early  morning,  leaving  the  twilights  jealously 
to  him. 

When  I  think  of  those  three  sweet  summers 
now,  I  think  their  lives  might  perhaps  have 
gone  on  in  the  same  untroubled  way  until  to- 
day, with  little  difference,  except  that  the 
young  girl  would  have  worn  a  wedding-ring, 
and  little  children,  in  her  own  image,  would 
have  played  about  her  feet  in  the  shade  of  the 
honeysuckle,  had  it  not  been  that  disease  so 
soon  fastened  his  cruel  fangs  upon  her  delicate 
frame,  and  death  with  his  long  bony  finger, 
pointed  onward  to  the  grave. 


94  THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE. 

She  was  only  slightly  unwell  at  first,  and 
always  among  the  flowers  in  the  summer 
mornings,  where  I  often  went  to  her,  to  ask 
her  how  she  had  rested  through  the  night,  but 
I  soon  learned  that  the  twilights  on  the  piazza 
were  given  up,  and  that  she  lay  quietly  on  the 
sofa  instead,  while  the  lady  and  the  young  man 
sang  or  read  to  her  for  a  few  brief  hours,  until 
she  would  fall  into  a  lethargy  which  was  not 
sleep,  yet  from  which  they  could  not  rouse  her 
until  morning.  At  first  they  thought  she 
would  soon  be  well  again,  and  sought  to  en- 
courage her  by  promises  of  little  gifts,  and 
journeys  she  was  to  take  when  she  recovered. 
The  young  girl  always  smiled  at  these  promises, 
and  laid  her  warm  flushed  cheeks  against  their 
palms,  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of  their 
love,  but  I  am  sure  she  knew  from  the  begin- 
ning of  her  illness  that  she  must  leave  them 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE.  95 

soon,  and  that  all  their  dreams  of  future  bliss 
could  not  be  realized  except  in  heaven. 

I  have  seen  her  great,  bright  eyes  follow  the 
young  man  and  the  lady  when  she  knew  they 
were  not  looking,  and  I  have  seen  their  lovely 
depths  full  of  grave  concern  and  sorrow,  not 
for  herself,  but  for  those  she  must  leave  behind. 
I  think  she  feared  things  must  go  ill  with  them 
when  she  had  gone,  so  well  she  knew  how 
they  loved  her,  and  how  blank  must  be  their 
lives  without  her.  This  fear  for  her  dear  ones 
was  all  that  seemed  to  try  her  in  those  last 
weary  months  of  pain  and  suffering.  For  her- 
self she  was  resigned;  so  easy  is  it,  for  sweet 
souls  like  her's,  to  put  off  mortality  for  ever- 
lasting life. 

She  had  forsaken  the  out-door  twilights  for 
a  long  time,  and  taken  to  her  sofa  constantly, 
before  the  thought  ever  flashed  across  the 


96  THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE. 

young  man's  mind  that  she  would  soon  fade 
out  of  his  life  forever.  The  cruel  truth  came 
upon  him  very  suddenly,  and  I  know  his  heart 
broke  those  long  dull  days  in  the  autumn  of  the 
year,  and  the  winter  of  her  life. 

Summer  sped  away  very  early  that  year; 
and  I  have  always  thought  nature  sent  those 
sobbing  autumn  rains  that  season,  out  of  pure 
grief  for  the  young  thing  who  had  always  been 
her  earnest  worshipper.  And  so,  while  the 
drizzling  rain  fell  on  the  piazza,  and  hung  the 
honeysuckle  with  glistening  tear-drops,  the 
flames  leaped  high  from  the  great  wood  fire  in 
the  little  parlor,  and  the  young  girl  grew  as 
white  as  the  forced  rosebuds  they  sent  her  every 
morning;  and  on  either  cheek  burned  those 
little  hectic  spots,  which  were,  alas !  the  harb- 
ingers of  her  untimely  end. 

I  believe  the  lady  was  not  surprised,  when 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE.  97 

the  doctor  told  her  the  fatal  truth.  Consump- 
tion had  long  been  in  her  family,  and  though 
she  grew  paler  and  thinner  herself  as  the  sor- 
rowful days  went  by,  I  cannot  remember  ever 
hearing  her  murmur  at  the  hardness  of  fate. 
She  was  old,  and  her  time,  too,  must  come  soon. 

After  all,  it  was  for  the  young  man  she  sor- 
rowed most.  He  it  was  who  must  live  on 
through  the  empty,  dreary  years ;  he,  in  the 
pride  of  his  strength,  in  the  glow  of  his  manly 
beauty ;  he  already  half-way  up  the  ladder  that 
men  call  fortune — broken,  bent,  aged  before  his 
time.  They  knew  too  well,  how  changed  he 
would  be  in  a  few  short  years,  for  all  his  life  he 
had  loved  the  young  girl,  and  they  knew  he 
would  go  down  to  his  grave  with  her  name  on 
his  lips. 

I  used  to  think  the  young  girl  was  the 
greater  mourner  in  these  last  days,  for  her 


98       THE  HONEYSUCKLE  COTTAGE. 


lover's  mind  was  already  bending  beneath  its 
great  weight,  and  it  was  she  who  preserved 
the  clearest  perception  down  to  the  very  end. 
The  last  night  of  her  life,  she  begged  him  to 
rouse  himself  from  the  stupor  she  saw  envelop- 
ing him,  and  go  out  into  the  world  doing  good 
for  her  sake;  but  I  fear  she  must  have  known 
it  was  too  late,  for  when  they  found  her  sweet, 
dead  face  among  its  pillows,  his  eyes  were 
fixed  in  a  glassy  stare,  that  was  very  different 
from  the  sweet,  calm  look  the  angels  had  left 
in  her's. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  they  buried  her 
yonder  in  the  church-yard,  among  all  those 
mossy  graves,  with  the  long  afternoon  shadows 
falling  on  the  stone  at  her  head ;  and,  somehow, 
it  has  always  seemed  to  me,  that  the  sunlight 
loves  to  fall  on  the  grave  of  the  young  girl; 
and  that  when  the  doves  come  on  their  annual 


THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE.  99 

pilgrimage,  they  hover  for  hours  together,  over 
this  pure  young  thing  whose  prototypes  they 
are,  and  when  I  hear  them  moaning  over  her 
mossy  grave,  I  think  of  the  poor,  old  senseless 
creature  whom  I  met  in  the  street  yesterday 
begging  for  alms,  and  my  tears  flow  unre- 
strained, for  I  know  that  this  is  he,  who  was 
her  lover  in  those  sweet  summer  twilights  of 
my  childhood. 

As  I  turn  sadly  away  from  the  church-yard, 
I  behold  this  same  weary  old  man  approaching 
the  place,  with  slow  and  feeble  footsteps.  He 
gives  me  a  dull,  meaningless  look,  and  goes  on 
by  the  same  well-known  path  I  have  just  trod 
to  her  grave. 

Oh!  could  he  but  know  how  I  loved  her 
too,  and  how  my  heart  was  wrung  when  they 
carried  her  out  here,  to  live  forever  among  the 
doves  and  the  long  afternoon  shadows.  Could 


IOO  THE    HONEYSUCKLE    COTTAGE. 

he  but  know  how  I,  like  him,  have  yearned  for 
her  all  these  long  years  since  I  have  known  she 
can  never  come  back  to  either  of  us. 

And  yet,  I  never  go  into  that  empty  cottage 
with  its  broken  windows,  where  the  birds  have 
long  since  built  their  nests,  and  where  the  great 
spiders, hang  their  webs  like  threads  of  gossa- 
mer through  the  open  sunshine,  that  her  sweet 
presence  is  not  with  me  as  it  was  in  the  old 
days.  Again  we  are  twining  the  branches  of 
the  honeysuckle,  not  over  the  dilapidated  win- 
dows and  porches  of  this  poor,  broken  old 
house,  but  over  the  snowy  lattice  of  what  was 
then,  and  what  will  ever  be  to  my  memory 
through  all  the  years,  the  dearest,  loveliest 
place  on  earth,  sweet  Honeysuckle  Cottage ! 


PLEASANT  PEOPLE. 


PLEASANT  PEOPLE. 

HAT  a  relief  it  is  to  find  people 
g§who  are  really  pleasant!  Not 
selfish,  fashionable,  conventional 
people  who  over-awe  you  with 
their  superior  knowledge,  and  gaze 
on  you  with  pity  when  you  attempt  a  remark ;  nor 
prejudiced  people;  nor  people  who  talk  chiefly 
upon  politics  or  religion ;  nor  people  of  one 
idea  who  harp  on  it  continually.  O !  dear  no, 
not  any  of  these,  but  really,  pleasant  com- 
panionable people,  with  whom  you  may  ex- 
change ideas,  in  whose  houses  you  feel  per- 
fectly at  home;  where  you  may  go  and  sit  for 


IO6  PLEASANT    PEOPLE. 


an  hour,  and  talk  about  the  day's  doings  or  any- 
thing that  interests  you,  without  fear  of  molesta- 
tion or  adverse  criticism ;  where  your  remarks 
pass  for  what  they  are;  where  you  may  ex- 
press your  opinions  freely,  without  fear  of  mis- 
construction, and  where  you  may  glean  golden 
ideas  from  your  thoughtful,  intelligent  friend, 
who  varies  the  monotony  of  your  every-day 
existence  by  expressions  and  interpretations 
which  would  never  occur  to  your  weary  brain, 
did  you  not  receive  such  valuable  hints  through 
the  enchanting  medium  of  a  little  quiet  rational 
conversation. 

You  go  to  your  friend  weary  and  care-worn, 
her  quiet  tones  soothe  and  calm  your  spirit, 
and  her  ideas  put  new  life  into  you,  and  make 
you  forget  your  weariness  and  grow  enthusias- 
tic. This  desirable  effect  is  something  that  is 
rarely  experienced  in  society  and  seldom  in 


PLEASANT    PEOPLE.  IO/ 

the  home  circle;  as  people  living  in  the  same 
house  travel  over  each  other's  minds  so  often 
that  a  frequent  exchange  of  ideas  often  leads 
over  precisely  the  same  ground  that  it  did  yes- 
terday or  the  day  before.  Outside  companion- 
ship, a  friend  to  whom  one  may  fly  as  a  con- 
versational refuge,  at  least  once  a  week,  is  an 
adjunct  to  the  life  of  every  man  and  woman, 
which  should  be  considered  as  indispensable  as 
the  morning  paper  or  mid-day  meal.  Some- 
where in  your  head  there  are  ideas ;  they  do 
not  come  out  during  your  customary  interviews 
with  your  servants,  nor  do  they  often  vent 
themselves  upon  your  husband,  who  hurries 
away  in  the  morning  and  returns  at  night  quite 
too  weary  for  anything  like  exhilarating  con- 
versation. You  have  ideas,  find  a  listener  and 
express  them.  Don't  shut  up  the  best  part  of 
yourself  like  a  nautilus  does  in  its  shell.  Don't 


IO8  PLEASANT    PEOPLE. 


allow  yourself  to  grow  so  rusty  in  expression 
as  not  to  be  able  to  write  a  pleasant  paragraph. 
Read,  talk,  write.  Keep  your  eyes  and  ears 
open,  for  your  children's  sake,  if  not  your  own, 
and  never  sink  to  that  miserable  mediocrity 
which  encompasses  three-fourths  of  the  world's 
people  who  are  not  "pleasant"  by  any  means. 


FAITH   MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS. 


FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS. 

r-  .  . 

r^' 

;WAY  back  in  the  dim  recesses  of 

my  memory  there  is  stored  a  pic- 
•ty'ture  of  a  white  county  landscape 
at  Christmas  time,  with  a  soft  gray 
sky  and  little  chattering  snow-birds 
giving  forth  the  only  sounds  that  disturb  the 
otherwise  perfect  stillness ;  there  are  broad 
smoke  wreaths  curling  from  the  old  red  chim- 
neys, and  the  faint  creak  of  a  saw  in  the  dis- 
tance, falls  upon  the  ear  like  the  drowsy  hum 
of  a  bee  in  summer. 

On  such  a  morning — being  then  a  mere  child 
— I  remember  having  been  driven  to  Uncle 
Marley's  in  one  of  those  old-time  vehicles 


114  FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS. 

known  in  rural  districts  as  bob-sleds,  and  upon 
being  ejected  from  the  same,  and  relieved  of 
the  extra  quantity  of  snow  that  enveloped  me, 
I  have  a  faint  recollection  of  waddling  up  the 
walk,  not  without  several  accidents  however, 
such  as  falling  squarely  upon  my  infantile  nose, 
my  heels  for  some  occult  reason  projecting 
wildly  into  space.  I  remember  lying  there  a 
few  minutes,  strengthened  by  a  conceit  such  as 
my  wife  now  tells  me  belongs  to  all  masculine 
children,  and  also  to  those  children  of  a  larger 
growth,  that  my  cousin  Faith  would  come 
running  out  of  the  house,  as  was  her  wont,  in 
her  pretty  blue  hood  and  mittens,  her  rosy 
cheeks  all  aglow  with  exercise,  to  pick  me  out 
of  the  snow-drift,  and  having  quieted  my 
screams  with  kisses,  run  laughing  with  me  into 
the  house.  All  this  I  lay  there  imagining, 
hugging  the  sweet  unction  to  my  heart,  and 


FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS.  1 1 5 

quite  content  to  wait  till  she  should  come. 
But  Faith  did  not  hasten  to  my  rescue  that 
morning,  and  good  Aunt  Marley  finally  catch- 
ing sight  of  my  copper-toed  boots  sticking  so 
curiously  out  of  the  drift,  came  running  to  my 
aid,  her  cap  strings  flying  in  the  breeze,  and 
her  soft,  brown  eyes  wearing  a  sad  expression 
I  had  never  seen  them  wear  before.  I  became 
contrite  at  once. 

"  I  ain't  hurt,  Aunty,"  I  said.  "  I  tell  you  a 
secret,  Aunty,  I  was  just  lying  here  waiting  for 
Faith  to  come  and  pick  me  up."  Thus  reas- 
sured, as  I  supposed,  Aunt  Marley  laughed  in 
spite  of  herself,  though  her  face  grew  very 
grave  as  we  entered  the  old  kitchen  where  the 
great  logs  blazed  on  the  hearth,  and  the  long 
shining  rows  of  tins,  arranged  on  the  walls  by 
Faith's  willing  hands,  reflected  the  firelight 
and  shone  like  burnished  silver;  the  cat  dozed 


u6  FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS. 

in  its  place  on  the  hearth,  and  the  tall  clock  in 
the  corner  ticked  away  the  hours  slowly  and 
lazily,  as  only  country  clocks  can  do. 

Uncle  Marley  was  in  his  accustomed  place, 
but  strange  to  say,  neither  dozing  nor  reading. 
His  white  head  was  bowed  on  his  hand,  and 
his  eyes  seemed  intent  on  fathoming  some 
mystery  in  the  fire.  He  looked  up  as  I  entered, 
but  child  as  I  was,  I  missed  the  enthusiastic 
welcome  the  old  man  usually  gave  me,  and  I 
was  hurt. 

"Where's  Faith?"  I  said,  my  sensitive  little 
voice  beginning  to  choke  with  sobs ;  the  ther- 
mometer of  my  intelligence  told  me  there  was 
something  wrong  with  Uncle  and  Aunt  Mar- 
ley's  temperature  this  morning.  I  would  find 
Faith  and  be  comforted !  I  knew  where  to  find 
her.  When  absent  from  the  great  kitchen  or 
dining-room  as  it  was  more  properly  called,  I 


FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS.  I  I/ 

knew  that  Faith  was  generally  in  her  own  room, 
a  cozy  little  place  at  the  other  end  of  the  house 
which  had  been  sacred  to  her  use  since  her 
childhood;  but  would  wonders  never  cease? 
Aunt  Marley  refused  to  let  me  go  to  her! 
Here  was  a  pretty  state  of  things,  indeed.  I, 
Johnny  Marley,  Faith  Marley's  favorite  among 
a  whole  host  of  ruddy  little  cousins ;  I  for 
whom  she  had  popped  corn,  and  cracked  nuts, 
and  made  ginger-bread  horses,  and  pulled 
candy  all  these  six  little  years  of  my  existence 
— I  refused  admittance?  'Twas  a  riddle  past 
my  solving,  and  I  sank  down  on  Aunt  Marley's 
lap  a  little  heap  of  disconsolate  misery. 

As  I  think  of  that  day  now,  I  remember  that 
Uncle  and  Aunt  Marley  exchanged  no  words 
during  the  entire  forenoon,  and  when  I  had 
been  coaxed  to  run  and  play  with  Tray,  the 
house-dog,  while  Auntie  prepared  the  old- 


u8          FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS. 

fashioned  twelve  o'clock  dinner,  it  seemed  to 
me  that  the  very  sun  would  stop  shining  pres- 
ently, everything  seemed  so  strange  and  un- 
natural about  the  usually  cheerful  place.  I  had 
lost  a  baby  sister  the  previous  summer,  and 
somehow  Uncle  Marley's  house  felt  a  good 
deal  to-day  as  ours  had  done  that  morning, 
when  baby  lay  in  the  dark  front  parlor,  and 
everybody  was  so  still  and  sorrowful. 

Tray  and  I  had  found  a  sunny  corner  near 
the  barn,  and  I  was  giving  him  the  benefit  of 
my  gloomy  cogitations,  when  Aunt  Marley's 
sweet  voice  called  me  to  dinner.  Of  course  I 
hurried  in — little  boys  are  always  hungry,  you 
know — and  when  Auntie  had  washed  my  face 
and  brushed  my  hair,  and  my  spirits  were  fast 
reviving,  owing  to  the  fragrant  effects  attribut- 
able to  the  odor  of  baked  beans  and  spicy 
pumpkin  pies,  I  overheard  Uncle  telling  her 


FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS.         .       I  1 9 

in  the  pantry  to  "go  and  fetch  Faith,  he  couldn't 
sit  down  without  the  child,"  and  then  Auntie 
trudged  away  to  Faith's  room,  and  though  she 
did  not  know  it,  I  followed  quietly  behind. 

The  door  was  tightly  closed,  and  when  Aunt 
Marley  lifted  the  latch,  I  saw  such  a  poor  white 
creature  lying  among  the  pillows  of  Faith's 
bed,  that  my  heart  began  to  beat  wildly  as  I 
wondered  if  she  had  not  gone  to  meet  baby  in 
heaven.  The  girl  was  worn  with  anxiety  and 
sleeplessness ;  there  were  great  dark  rings  about 
her  bright  eyes;  she  looked  like  the  spirit  of 
herself. 

"  Don't  come  in,  mother,"  she  pleaded,  "I 
can't  see  you  just  yet,"  and  Aunt  Marley  went 
back  to  the  kitchen,  crying  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

After  that  there  was  a  pretense  of  eating 
dinner,  though  I  remember  distinctly  that  the 


I2O  FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS. 


two  poor  souls  did  not  eat  a  mouthful,  and  then 
Uncle  Marley  said  he  must  go  over  to  the  south 
pasture  to  see  how  the  men  were  getting  on 
with  the  sawing,  and  he  shook  hands  with  me 
in  his  hearty  bluff  fashion,  and  having  given 
me  a  gold  dollar  for  Christmas,  was  away  over 
the  meadows  to  the  pasture. 

The  next  day  would  be  Christmas  and  as  we 
lived  some  distance  away,  my  father  called  for 
me  early  in  the  afternoon  that  we  might  reach 
home  in  time  for  the  Christmas-eve  festivities 
he  always  prepared  for  his  children.  When  he 
came  in  ruddy  with  the  cold,  and  slapping  his 
big  hands  before  the  blazing  fire  to  warm  them, 
Aunt  Marley  only  said,  "O!  Abner—  "  and 
sent  me  out  with  Tray  again,  that  she  might 
unburden  her  heart  to  her  relative. 

When  I  saw  Faith  again  she  was  much  as 
she  had  always  been;  a  trifle  paler,  perhaps, 


FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS.  121 

and  not  so  merry,  but  she  had  taken  Faith 
Marley's  place  in  her  father's  house  once  more ; 
the  gentle,  trusting,  loving  daughter,  the  dis- 
penser of  peace  and  cheerfulness,  the  girl  whose 
shadowed  life  would  tend  to  greater  unselfish- 
ness, to  deeper  devotion,  than  even  its  sweet 
nature  had  ever  known  before. 

It  was  years  before  I  was  old  enough  to  un- 
derstand, and  then  upon  asking  one  day  why 
Cousin  Faith  had  never  married,  they  told  me 
of  that  dark  Christmas-time  in  her  life  so  long 
ago,  when  tidings  had  been  received  that  her 
betrothed,  then  absent  in  a  distant  city,  had 
proven  faithless,  and  wedded  another.  At  first 
Faith  had  defied  this  statement.  How  could 
they  speak  of  him  so?  He,  the  embodiment 
of  all  that  was  good  and  noble,  he,  the  dearest, 
truest  man  in  all  the  world!  Had  she  known 
him  all  those  years  but  to  misjudge  him,  he 


122  FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS. 

whose  sympathies,  whose  tastes  and  affections 
had  run  so  counterpart  with  hers,  that  they  had 
long  since  become  part  of  her  own  nature;  he 
whose  wife  she  had  promised  to  be  with  her 
father's  sanction,  with  all  the  hallowing  influ- 
ences that  go  to  make  pledges  inviolate? 

Alas,  poor  Faith !  only  the  long  desolate 
years,  only  the  weary,  watching,  waiting  hours 
might  teach  you  how  this  could  be.  Nurtured 
in  the  bosom  of  affection,  cultured  in  all  those 
endearments  known  to  simple,  loving  family 
life,  what  knew  you  of  the  ways  men  have  to 
break  women's  trusting  hearts?  Of  the  long 
months  of  silence,  the  sickening  hope  deferred, 
and  the  cruel  end  pens  cannot  paint !  The  un- 
loved, unloving  after-years  that  come  to  over- 
balance that  first  glow  of  rosy  loving  trust! 
The  empty,  soulless  life  that  stretches  away 
over  into  the  blankness  of  the  grave,  even 


FAITH    MARLEVS    CHRISTMAS.  123 


down  to  the  misty  shores  of  eternity !  After 
a  little  time  she  never  spoke  to  any  one 
on  the  subject,  but  her  mother  knew  that 
in  her  heart  she  rejected  the  cruel  story,  and 
looked  with  longing,  patient  eyes  for  the  time 
when  her  lover  would  return.  She  always 
thought  of  him  in  the  same  tender  loving  way 
that  had  been  her  wont  in  the  days  of  their 
betrothal.  His  gifts  hung  about  her  room. 
His  presence  was  always  with  her.  Her 
mother  often  came  upon  her  in  the  twilight, 
and  saw  the  sad,  sweet  eyes  looking  away 
so  wistfully  over  the  quiet  landscape.  Had  he 
returned  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night,  she 
would  never  have  been  surprised  or  startled. 
And  when  he  came,  there  would  be  no  ques- 
tioning. Ah !  no,  she  loved  him  too  well  for 
that!  Some  cruel  thing  had  only  detained 
him.  Men  cannot  always  come  to  the  women 


124  FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS. 

they  love  just  when  they  like.  His  long  ab- 
sence would  only  make  their  meeting  sweeter, 
would  only  tinge  with  deeper  bloom  their  lives, 
and  the  lives  of  their  children  who  would  rise 
up  in  their  grandfather's  old  age,  and  call  him 
blessed !  All  this  she  thought,  and  yet  I  think  she 
was  quite  sane  on  other  subjects,  and  her  prac- 
tical voice  more  than  once  righted  the  affairs 
of  the  old  farm,  for  her  father  was  a  very  old 
man  now,  and  no  son  had  been  born  to  him  in 
the  days  of  his  early  manhood. 

And  so  the  seasons  came  and  went.  The 
snow  fell  in  the  winter,  and  she  could  see  him 
springing  up  the  garden  walk  just  as  he  used 
to  do ;  sometimes  he  would  see  her  waiting  at 
the  window,  and  then  he  would  kiss  his  hand 
to  her  in  the  old  gallant  fashion  while  she  stood 
blushing  to  open  the  door  for  him.  The  spring 
came,  and  the  dried  violets  on  the  mantel  re- 


FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS.  125 

minded  her  of  the  May  day  they  had  roamed 
the  hills,  and  gathered  them.  Summer  brought 
the  roses  he  had  loved,  and  autumn  the  fruits 
she  had  been  wont  to  serve  him;  all  nature  re- 
minded her  of  him,  and  the  loving,  loyal  heart 
never  forgot  him  for  a  moment. 

All  this  time  Faith  did  not  grow  old.  Age 
is  reserved  for  those  who  despond.  Faith 
hoped.  There  was  something  spiritual  in  this 
hoping  against  fate;  a  sort  of  uncanny  trust  in 
temporal  things  that  made  Aunt  Marley  shud- 
der as  she  watched  her.  Would  the  scales 
ever  fall  from  her  eyes  ?  And  if  they  did,  what 
then?  This  thought  sometimes  goaded  her 
parents  almost  to  distraction.  Poor  Aunt  Mar- 
ley!  Dearest,  most  devoted  of  mothers,  how 
has  your  heart  been  wrung  at  this  very  tran- 
quility  of  Faith's,  which  you  feared  would  some 
time  be  shaken. 


126          FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS. 

Time  went  on.  I  was  now  grown  to  young 
manhood,  and  during  one  of  my  college  vaca- 
tions spent  at  the  home  of  a  classmate  in  a  dis- 
tant city,  I  had  met  George  Heathcote,  my 
Cousin  Faith's  quondam  lover.  He  had  been 
a  husband  and  father  for  years,  but  time  had 
not  dealt  so  kindly  with  him  as  it  had  with 
Faith.  His  hair  was  becoming  silvered,  and 
the  furrows  care  had  made  in  his  face,  were 
deep  and  prominent.  He  was  a  cool,  crafty 
man  of  the  world,  this  brazen  image  whom  our 
sweet  saint  had  set  up  in  her  heart  to  worship; 
a  respected  citizen,  a  man  prominent  in  all  pub- 
lic undertakings,  a  good  husband,  a  devoted 
father,  yet  there  were  wrinkles  in  his  face  that 
told  the  story  of  Faith  Marley's  sorrow.  He 
asked  for  her;  with  feeling  too,  I  thought;  and 
when  I  told  him  of  that  sweet,  placid  life,  that 
deep  content  which  quieted  all  things  in  its 


FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS.  I2/ 

great  calm,  he  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes 
that  I  might  not  see  his  tears.  How  he  would 
have  accounted  for  that  strange  freak  which  led 
to  his  inconstancy,  I  knew  not  then,  nor  have 
I  ever  known.  It  was  too  delicate  a  subject  to 
touch  upon,  and  I  had  too  much  regard  for 
Faith,  even  to  broach  it  in  any  way. 

The  woman's  life  went  on  like  a  poem;  so 
sweet,  so  subdued,  so  unlike  any  other  grief- 
stricken  life  with  all  its  passionate  out-breaks 
and  brooding  melancholies. 

It  had  been  Christmas  time  when  Faith's 
trouble  had  come  upon  her.  On  Christmas 
eve,  the  eve  of  the  very  day  I  had  spent  at 
Uncle  Marley's,  fifteen  long  years  ago,  Heath- 
cote  was  to  have  come  to  the  farm-house  to 
make  arrangements  for  their  bridal.  He  had  not 
come,  but  tidings  of  his  inconstancy  had  ar- 
rived early,  and  it  was  in  the  first  prostration  of 


128  FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS. 

her  grief  and  surprise  that  I  had  seen  Faith 
Marley,  that  long-ago  winter's  day.  After  that, 
Aunt  Marley  said,  Faith  had  always  seemed 
to  regard  Christmas  eve  as  a  peculiar  anniver- 
sary. At  this  season  of  the  year  she  would  be- 
come merry  as  of  old,  and  with  roses  blooming 
in  her  cheeks,  would  fly  about  the  old  house, 
brightening  it  with  branches  of  evergreen  and 
holly;  polishing  the  great  brass  knockers  until 
they  reflected  her  sweet  face;  putting  a  picture 
here,  a  ribbon  there;  airing  the  quaint  old 
rooms  which  had  not  been  used  since  the  days 
of  her  early  girlhood,  and  which,  to  any  less 
resolute  soul,  had  been  full  of  ghosts  long 
before. 

There  was  a  room  in  the  house  that  had  been 
George  Heathcote's  when  he  had  come  to  the 
farm  for  the  holidays  or  the  Sabbath ;  for  Uncle 
Marley  had  been  the  boy's  guardian  through 


FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS.  129 

all  the  years  of  his  early  orphanage,  and  this 
long-unused  room  Faith  used  to  put  in.  order 
every  Christmas.  The  week  following  my 
visit  at  Heathcote's,  I  arrived  at  Uncle  Marley's 
just  as  Faith  was  putting  the  finishing  touches 
to  this  room.  It  was  in  perfect  order,  from  the 
snowy  counterpane  to  the  spotless  Swiss  cur- 
tains at  the  window. 

"Isn't  it  pretty,  Cousin  Johnnie?"  she  said. 
No  one  ever  grew  any  older  in  Faith's  way  of 
thinking;  if  her  life  stood  still  so  must  every- 
body else's. 

"One  gets  just  drowsy  enough  to  sleep  well 
here,  from  the  dripping  of  the  eaves;  and  I 
have  fed  the  snow-birds  all  winter  under  this 
window,  so  they  will  come  and  waken  George 
with  their  cherry  voices  in  the  morning!" 

I  had  never  heard  my  Cousin  Faith  mention 
that  name  before,  and  a  shiver  thrilled  through 


I3O  FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS. 

me  as  I  looked  at  the  slender  figure  with  its 
burden  of  thirty-five  years,  and  the  now  un- 
naturally bright  eyes  looking  out  so  longingly 
over  the  hills.  Aunt  Marley  said  she  had 
spoken  to  her  in  the  same  way  too,  to-day; 
there  was  something  strange  in  all  this.  Was 
the  end  approaching?  Surely  the  hallucina- 
tion could  not  last  always.  The  physicians 
said  Faith  must  eventually  awaken  to  reality, 
or  else  lose  her  reason  entirely.  These,  then, 
were  the  cruel  alternatives  that  sweet  soul  must 
choose  between ;  this  the  price  her  love  had 
cost  her,  the  pitiless  reward  for  all  those  years 
of  constancy.  And  yet  when  I  look  back  over 
this  sad  story,  it  seems  to  me  that  Faith  was 
mercifully  spared  much  suffering,  which  must 
have  been  hers,  had  her  senses  been  keen 

enough    to    realize  her   true   situation.     Very 

t 
possibly,  too,  her  character  had  not  been  the 


FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS.  131 


lovely  one  that  it  was,  had  the  intense  pain 
realism  would  have  brought,  entered  her  heart 
to  corrode  and  tarnish  its  pure  trust.  Always 
unselfish,  she  had  been  doubly  so  since  her  be- 
reavement, and  though  her  heart  was  far  away 
with  the  man  she  had  loved,  her  hands  were 
never  idle  in  preparing  comforts  for  her  aged 
parents. 

Uncle  Marley  had  become  very  childish  these 
last  few  years,  and  the  more  feeble  he  became 
the  more  he  and  Faith  seemed  to  understand 
each  other.  I  have  seen  her  brush  his  hair  and 
arrange  his  toilet,  singing  softly  to  him  as  she 
did  so,  until  the  old  gray  head  bowed  itself  in 
sleep  upon  her  shoulder.  At  these  times  she 
never  moved  lest  she  should  disturb  him,  but  sat 
quietly  in  her  chair,  with  that  dreamy  look  in 
her  soft  eyes,  always  looking,  looking  into 
space.  On  such  occasions  I  have  often  im- 


132          FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS. 

agined  that  Faith  fancied  her  father  to  be  her 
child ;  a  fancy  strengthened  by  a  gentle  rocking 
motion  she  always  used  in  soothing  him  to 
sleep,  and  by  the  cradle  songs  she  always  sang 
him.  All  these  phases  and  imageries  had  be- 
come as  familiar  to  Aunt  Marley  as  the  oldest 
household  word.  She  was  a  woman  of  quick 
perceptions,  and  Faith  had  been  her  study  for 
years.  Dear  Aunt  Marley!  As  I  look  up 
from  my  writing  to-day,  and  behold  you  seated 
at  my  fireside,  my  little  son  established  on  your 
knee,  there  is  a  sorrow  in  your  wrinkled  face 
that  passeth  all  understanding.  How  few  of 
us  go  down  to  our  graves  fully  realizing  how 
our  mothers  have  suffered  for  us !  The  very 
poetry  of  nature  was  herein  typified.  Faith's 
sorrow  was  more  to  Aunt  Marley  than  it  was 
to  Faith  herself!  The  mother  knew  every 
changing  expression  of  the  girl's  face,  and 


FAITH    MARLEYS    CHRISTMAS.  133 

sorrowed  over  it  in  her  secret  soul.  But 
to  return  to  that  Christmas  eve.  I  had 
early  decided  to  remain  at  Uncle  Marley's  over 
night,  as  I  knew  my  presence  would  in  some 
degree  reassure  Aunt  Marley,  and  might  also 
have  some  effect  on  Faith,  who  never  left  her 
seat  by  the  window  after  the  first  approach  of 
night.  In  vain  I  tried  to  engage  her  in  conver- 
sation, faint  smiles  were  her  only  replies; 
although  once  she  laid  her  hand  on  my  head, 
and  apologized  to  me  for  not  having  been  able 
to  see  me  in  the  morning.  At  first  I  did  not 
catch  her  meaning,  but  when  I  saw  Aunt  Mar- 
ley  start  and  shudder  as  if  an  adder  had  stung 
her,  I  knew  that  Faith's  mind  had  gone  back 
to  that  day  fifteen  years  before,  when  I  had 
seen  her  in  the  first  paroxysm  of  her  grief. 

"All  that  is  over  now,  Johnnie,"  she  said 
presently.     "  He  is  coming  soon.     No,  mother, 


134  FAITH  'MARLEY'S    CHRISTMAS. 

don't  drop  the  curtains;  I  can't  see  if  you  do 
that!"  And  so  Aunt  Marley  tied  the  curtains 
back  again,  with  the  fresh  blue  ribbon  Faith 
had  put  there  in  the  morning,  that  the  poor 
soul  might  look  up  and  down  the  long  white 
road,  and  imagine  she  heard  the  sound  of 
wheels. 

The  place  was  very  still ;  there  was  nothing 
save  the  nervous  click,  click  of  Aunt  Marley's 
knitting-needles,  and  the  ticking  of  the  old 
clock  to  disturb  the  stillness,  and  when  I 
glanced  over  at  the  pale  figure  crouched  at  the 
window,  with  the  clasped  hands,  and  earnest, 
eager  eyes,  there  was  a  ghastliness  about  the 
scene  and  the  silence  which  I  can  never  forget. 
Who  knows,  mused  I,  how  this  night  will  end 
for  Faith,  for  with  all  her  hoping  she  had 
never  been  so  intent  on  Heathcote's  coming  as 
she  was  to-night.  Would  her  warm  imagina- 


FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS.  135 

tion  drive  him  to  these  gates?  Would  fancy 
waft  him  to  this  loving  heart  to  which  he  had 
so  long  been  a  stranger?  Mayhap  sleep  would 
come  and  with  her  rosy  wings  brush  out  these 
cob-web  fancies.  Pray  heaven  it  might.  Thus 
I  mused  while  Aunt  Marley's  shining  needles 
clicked  on,  and  the  tall  clock  in  the  corner 
•truck  the  dragging  hours. 

The  features  of  the  snowy  landscape  reflect- 
ed by  the  bright  rays  of  the  moon,  streamed 
in  through  the  parted  curtains  and  lay  so  many 
ghastly  shadows  on  the  floor.  Instinctively 
I  began  to  grow  nervous,  and  having  risen  to 
mend  the  fire,  approached  the  window  oppo- 
site Faith.  Was  I  dreaming?  No.  I  rubbed 
my  eyes.  I  was  here  in  the  flesh.  I,  John 
Marley,  home  from  college  on  a  vacation, 
spending  the  night  at  Uncle  Marley's  that  I 
might  bear  my  poor  Aunt  company  in  her 


136          FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS. 

anxiety  for  Faith.  All  this  I  experienced  in  an 
instant,  but  not  until  I  had  seen  a  sleigh  dash 
up  to  the  gate,  and  my  Cousin  Faith  open  the 
door,  and  fly  down  the  walk  like  a  spirit,  her 
fair  hair  coming  unbound  as  she  ran,  making 
her  look  in  her  light^  robes  like  something 
supernatural.  Still,  half-doubting  the  evidence 
of  our  senses,  Aunt  Marley  and  I  followed 
speedily  in  Faith's  footsteps.  Two  men  were 
lifting  a  man's  body  from-  the  sleigh,  and  Faith 
was  chafing  its  cold  hands,  and  moaning  over 
it,  as  she  had  never  moaned  in  all  the  years  of 
her  desolation. 

They  carried  him  to  the  house,  Faith  leading 
the  way  to  the  little  room  she  had  arranged  in 
the  morning,  and  when  the  candles  were 
brought  in  I  knew  that  the  man  who  lay  be- 
fore us  was  George  Heathcote.  Driving  a 
spirited  horse  through  that  part  of  the  country 


FAITH    MARLEY'S    CHRISTMAS.  137 

on  a  mission  of  business,  he  had  become 
paralyzed  with  the  cold,  and  the  animal  had 
plunged  forward  into  a  ravine,  throwing  him 
upon  a  bed  of  sharp  rocks,  and  inflicting  seri- 
ous wounds  from  which  he  would  never  re- 
cover. 

As  we  stood  there  in  the  dim  light  of  the 
candles,  after  the  physician  had  dressed  the 
wounds,  I  wondered  if  Faith,  who  never  left 
his  side,  recognized  the  changes  time  had  made 
in  the  man  she  had  loved  with  such  singular 
constancy.  I  do  not  believe  that  a  single  feature 
of  his  face  had  changed  to  her,  nor  that  she 
took  any  heed  of  the  long  heavy  beard  he  had 
grown,  or  of  the  furrows  in  the  brow  she  had 
known  smooth  as  a  child's. 

Once  only  she  left  him,  and  then  I  heard  her 
awakening  her  father  to  tell  him  that  George 
had  come,  and  she  feared  he  was  seriously  hurt. 


138  FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS. 

She  was  quite  rational  on  the  subject  of  Heath- 
cote's  great  danger.  She  refused  to  let  any- 
one else  care  for  him,  and  took  the  doctor's 
directions  quite  as  lucidly  as  would  the  ablest, 
most  experienced  nurse. 

The  man  had  been  thrown  into  a  heavy  stu- 
por, from  which  he  only  roused  once  before  he 
died.  Faith  had  been  giving  him  a  cordial, 
and  we  gazed  at  her  with  swimming  eyes  as  she 
lifted  his  heavy  head  to  her  shoulder,  and  laid 
her  warm  soft  cheek  against  the  one  already 
stiffening  in  death. 

Was  it  divine,  or  was  it  but  an  illustration  of 
the  doctrine  of  compensation  ?  who  shall  say, 
— that  faint  gleam  of  consciousness  which  came 
to  George  Heathcote  in  the  last  hours  of  his 
life  ?  For  an  instant  his  eyes  opened ;  he  saw 
her ;  knew  that  it  was  she,  the  love  of  his  boy- 
hood. His  pale  lips  murmured,"Faith,  forgive." 


FAITH  MARLEY'S  CHRISTMAS.  139 

One  moment  he  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and 
this  was  the  end.  The  man  sank  back  upon 
his  pillow,  dead  ;  and  when  we  went  to  him  we 
found  that  Faith  had  fainted. 

And  thus,  while  kindly  hands  performed  the 
last  sad  offices  for  the  man  wrho  had  so  sud- 
denly gone  out  of  life,  the  sombre  King  of 
Shadows  hovered  about  our  own  sweet  angel, 
and  when  another  sunset  came,  our  hearts  were 
breaking  with  a  new  anguish,  for  the  sweet  soul 
of  Faith  Marley  had  gone  out  to  meet  her 
lover's,  on  that  long  last  journey  from  whence 
no  traveler  returns. 


SUNDAY  MORNINGS. 


SUNDAY  MORNINGS. 

HAT  a  hallowed  quiet  seems  to 
pervade  the  atmosphere  Sunday 
mornings.  Tired  Nature  seems  to 
have  arrayed  herself  for  the  occa- 
sion, and  if  you  have  pitched  your 
tent  anywhere  outside  a  mining  camp,  the  dis- 
tinctive characteristics  of  the  day  will  impress 
themselves  upon  you  more  earnestly  perhaps, 
than  anything  else  has  done  during  the  whole 
of  the  past  week.  You  deliberately  leave  your 
bed  at  no  very  early  hour,  and  stealthily  draw- 
ing your  curtains  aside,  look  dreamily  into  the 
street  below  your  windows,  investing  each 
passer-by  with  an  interest  entirely  foreign  to 


144  SUNDAY    MORNINGS. 

that  which  you  feel  in  him  ordinarily.  Some- 
how the  street  seems  cleaner  than  usual;  the 
milkman  does  not  come  so  early  to-day,  and 
the  numerous  squads  of  small  boys  and  girls 
who  troop  by  to  the  Sabbath  schools,  are  cer- 
tainly better  cleansed  and  clothed  than  they 
were  yesterday,  when  you  saw  them  bound  for 
the  park,  with  those  immense  long-tailed  kites 
in  their  hands. 

Your  Catholic  neighbors,  good  souls,  are 
earlier  in  their  devotions  than  other  church- 
goers, and  are  always  distinguishable  by  the 
bright  colors  in  their  dress,  and,  often  among 
the  younger  ones,  by  their  clear  pink  com- 
plexions and  deep  violet  eyes,  for  young  Irish 
beauty  is  like  a  mountain  flower  just  kissed  by 
the  dawn,  so  fresh  and  sweet  and  simple  is  it, 
so  wholly  unspotted  by  affectation  or  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  world.  Sometimes  the  priest -makes 


SUNDAY    MORNINGS.  145 

one  of  this  little  group,  and  it  not  uncommonly 
occurs  to  my  lady  behind  the  blinds,  that  he 
is  an  exceptionally  handsome  fellow,  and  that 
the  admiring  glances  of  the  young  women  fall 
more  than  once  upon  the  strong  limbs  and 
massive  shoulders  of  him  who  is  set  over  them 
as  spiritual  adviser  and  teacher. 

The  other  church  people  will  not  sally  forth 
for  two  hours  yet,  and  as  the  street  scene 
grows  less  interesting,  you  involuntarily  turn 
your  attention  inside,  begin  to  wonder  vaguely 
if  breakfast  is  nearly  ready,  and  set  about  pre- 
paring your  toilet  in  a  deliciously  lazy  manner 
you  would  never  think  of  using  on  a  week  day. 

The  household  is  comparatively  at  rest  this 
morning,  at  least  there  is  none  of  that  hurry 
and  bustle,  together  with  scraping  of  brooms 
and  rolling  of  chairs  and  tables,  which  your 
landlady  sees  fit  to  inaugurate  ordinarily. 


146  SUNDAY    MORNINGS. 

Sunday  rest  and  relaxation  have  come  over 
everybody  and  everything,  and  it  is  a  blessed 
feature  in  the  economy  of  nature  that  it  is  so. 
Everyday  life  is  such  a  battle  with  adverse  cir- 
cumstances that  our  physical  organisms,  if 
nothing  else,  demand  Sunday  respite,  and  so 
strong  is  the  habit  or  custom,  so  necessary  the 
relief  to  exhausted  faculties,  that  Sunday  morn- 
ing brings  with  it  a  measure  of  hushed  tran- 
quility,  which  is  the  very  essence  of  perfect 
peace. 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 


THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

— N 

has  been  deemed  best  that  the  old 
home  should  be  given  up,  and  that  its 
aged  master  and  mistress,  now  unfit 
for  cares  and  responsibilities  of  any 
kind,  should  retire  to  a  life  of  ease 
and  comfort  within  the  family  of  a  near  and  dear 
relative,  whose  pleasure  it  will  be  to  make  the 
remainder  of  their  days  happy  and  comfortable. 
Nothing  could  be  kinder  than  the  relative's  in- 
tentions, nothing  pleasanter  than  her  spacious 
home;  and  yet  grandpa's  heart  aches  bitterly 
as  he  goes  about  over  his  broad  lands,  and  re- 
alizes that  they  are  henceforth  to  pass  into  the 
hands  of  strangers,  to  whom  they  can  have  but 
a  moneyed  value  at  best,  and  who  will  dispose 


152  THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

of  them  again,  as  soon  as  they  can  do  so  advan- 
tageously. 

'Tis  forty  long  years  since  grandpa's  energy 
and  industry  first  came  to  bear  upon  what  was 
then  wild,  rugged  soil.  Little  by  little  he  saw 
vegetation  rise  where  rude  desolation  once 
greeted  his  friendly  eyes;  day  after  day  he 
made  one  improvement  after  another — a  fence 
here,  a  field  there,  in  another  place  a  broad 
pasture  for  his  stock,  and  just  back  of  the 
house  he  planted  with  his  own  hands  that  no- 
ble grove,  which  has  so  long  since  proven  such 
a  kindly  shelter  from  summer's  heat  and  win- 
ter's cold. 

It  is  a  warm  spring  afternoon,  and  grandpa 
is  making  his  last  round  before  leaving  the  old 
home  for  his  new  quarters  in  the  city,  which 
he  is  not  at  all  sure  he  will  like,  or  ever  be  able 
to  regard  as  home.  He  leans  heavily  on  his 


THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD.  153 

staff,  for  he  has  not  entirely  withstood  the  ene- 
mies of  old  age,  and  his  lameness  is  very  hard 
to  bear  at  times,  though  he  never  complains, 
and  always  proudly  scorns  any  offer  of  sym- 
pathy. Long  years  of  toil  and  labor  have  bent 
his  form,  but  his  noble  old  head,  with  its  silver}' 
hair,  is  still  proudly  erect,  and  his  keen  blue 
eyes  and  long  white  beard  would  delight  the 
heart  of  an  artist,  by  furnishing  him  a  type 
which  he  had  long  sought.  He  goes  slowly 
about  the  place,  looking  at  everything  so 
quietly  and  wistfully,  much  as  a  mother  looks 
at  her  stalwart  sons  who  are  about  to  leave  her. 
He  approaches  the  low,  rambling,  weather- 
beaten  old  barn,  and  his  mind  goes  back  to  the 
day  when  the  antiquated  structure  was 
"  raised."  How  strong  and  young  he  and  his 
friends  were  then!  How  broken  and  bent  now 
with  the  snows  of  many  winters. 


154  THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

The  old  place  has  a  charm  for  grandpa  that 
none  other  ever  can  have.  It's  perfect  beauty 
is  the  work  of  his  hands.  He  fashioned  it  in 
its  infancy;  to  his  untiring  efforts  all  this  luxu- 
rious verdure,  all  this  complete  arrangement  is 
due.  He  has  the  same  pride  in  it  that  an  au- 
thor has  in  his  book,  or  a  painter  in  his  picture. 
Here  among  these  peaceful  scenes  he  spent  the 
days  of  his  early  manhood;  here  he  brought 
his  young  wife  home,  when  her  cheeks  were  as 
rosy  and  her  eyes  as  bright  as  any  young  las- 
sie's in  the  land  to-day.  From  this  home, 
those  who  have  learned  to  call  him  by  the  lov- 
ing name  of  father,  have  gone  out  to  their  vari- 
ous battles  with  the  world.  No,  it  is  not 
strange  he  should  not  like  to  go,  nor  that  he 
should  linger  so  long  upon  the  old  threshold  to 
which  for  so  many  years  he  has  bade  his  friends 
welcome.  His  body  will  depart  from  the  old 


THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD.  155 

haunts;  the  places  that  knew  him  so  well  will 
know  him  no  more  on  earth;  but  his  soul  will 
hover  about  the  old  homestead  until  the  angels 
call  his  lonely  spirit  to  its  eternal  rest. 


MY  SKETCH  BOOK. 


MY  SKETCH  BOOK. 

r<~* 

F  you  will  come  and  sit  with  me  for 

an  hour,  we  will  go  about  the  world  in 

a  show-box. 

You  will  have  to  be  very  patient,  of 

course,  for  even  though  fancy's  pic- 
tures are  thrown  in  by  the  brush  of  memory, 
they  are  yet  of  that  dreamy  indistinct  nature 
that  brooks  no  haste,  and  the  leaves  of  my 
sketch-book  must  be  turned  as  slowly  and 
musingly  as  if  they  were  fabled  pages  of  some 
book  of  elf-land. 

Then,  too,  I  may  as  occasion  requires,  con- 
jure up  by  the  aid  of  my  wand,  which  to  you 
is  simply  a  black  lead  pencil,  such  very  old 


l6o  MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 

scenes  and  places  that  the  pictures  will  be  lost 
in  gloom  for  a  little  time,  and  you  will  conse- 
quently see  nothing  but  darkness. 

Out  of  this  chaos  I  will  undertake  however, 
to  evolve  something  that  may  please  you  this 
warm  May  night,  as  you  are  resting  from  the 
labors  of  the  day,  your  children  on  your  knees. 

Speaking  of  children,  the  first  picture  in  the 
book  is  that  of  a  child,  for  surely  children  are 
the  beginning  of  everything  that  is  pure  and 
beautiful  in  life.  This  picture  is  of  a  wan  little 
face  with  great  sad  eyes  which  seem  always 
filled  with  tears.  They  are  those  of  a  baby 
who  is  laid  to  rest  on  a  pillow,  while  a  fond 
mother  just  in  the  prime  of  life  bends  over  the 
dainty  thing  to  soothe  and  encourage  it  with 
loving  mother-words.  The  baby  is  sick,  but 
the  picture  is  nevertheless  a  very  pretty  one, 
so  filled  it  is  with  the  essence  of  all  that  goes 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK.  l6l 

to  make  life  worth  living;  for  I  think  a 
mother's  love  is  the  theme  the  angels  sing  most 
'round  the  great  white  throne. 

Turning  slowly  on,  we  come  to  a  page  where 
an  old  white  farm-house  is  set  in  the  midst  of 
thick  green  shade;  masses  of  purple  and  scar- 
let flowers  are  nodding  sleepily  in  the  warm 
sunshine,  and  from  the  open  door  is  heard  the 
sweet  low  song  of  the  housewife  as  she  goes 
about  her  tasks. 

Back  of  the  house  lie  great  golden  fields  of 
grain,  and  the  click,  click  of  the  reaper  is  the 
only  sound  that  disturbs  the  perfect  stillness  of 
the  landscape.  Dotted  here  and  there  across 
the  yellow  field  stand  the  harvesters,  men  of 
brawn  and  muscle,  whose  dark  sun-burned 
arms  would  pass  well  as  studies  for  a  bronze 
model ;  as  noon  approaches,  a  little  figure  with 
a  sweet  primrose  face  peeping  demurely  forth 


1 62  MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 

from  a  white  sun-bonnet,  comes  tripping  over 
the  field  with  a  willow  basket  on  her  arm,  and 
one  there  is- — a  great  sturdy  blue-eyed  young 
fellow — who  hastens  on  to  meet  her  and  relieve 
her  of  her  load.  Let  us  hope  that  he  will  lift 
life's  burdens  for  her  as  willingly  as  he  lifts  the 
basket  to-day,  and  that  the  light  will  shine 
quite  as  brightly  over  their  future,  as  it  does 
over  the  yellow  grain  fields  ripening  there  in 
the  summer  sun. 

The  next  picture  we  come  upon  is  that  of  a 
mountain  pass ;  ten  thousand  feet  above  the  sea 
man's  ingenuity  has  carried  us,  and  here  we 
are  bowling  along  among  the  clouds,  with  the 
everlasting  purple  hills  on  every  side,  and  the 
sun  just  sinking  to  rest  over  there  in  his  crim- 
son bed. 

The  silence  is  so  great  up  here,  that  one  can 
think  of  nothing  save  the  unfathomed  mysteries 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK.  163 

of  life  and  death.  Left  thus  alone  with  crea- 
tion we  realize  more  than  ever  our  insignifi- 
cance, yet  are  forced  to  contemplate  the  intense 
power  of  feeling  we  have  within. 

Our  party  alights  and  stands  gazing  about 
the  boundless  landscape.  Ah  !  how  difficult  it 
is  to  breathe.  How  infinitely  larger  the  world 
is  away  up  here  among  the  clouds.  We  are 
traversing  a  narrow  track  of  railroad,  and  it 
seems  nature  must  have  provided  just  this 
much  space  for  it  to  occupy,  as  there  is  not 
room  enough  left  to  allow  the  passage  of  a 
wheelbarrow ;  but  there  are  chasms — bottom- 
less chasms  it  seems  to  us — and  great  rocky 
precipices  whose  wooded  sides  are  sloping 
down  so  beautifully  to  death  in  the  vast  rocks 
and  rushing  streams  below ;  there  are  hills  and 
hills,  rocks  and  rocks ;  trees  as  green  as  emer- 
alds, and  that  great  boundless  stretch  of  crim- 


164  MY   SKETCH    BOOK. 

son  sunset  over  the  whole.  Oh  !  vastness  !  thou 
art  here,  these  are  thy  tents  and  tabernacles ; 
this  silence  the  language  of  thy  great  bursting 
heart!  Surely  in  these  dim  aisles  man's  nature 
may  expand,  and  truly  I  think  such  is  the  case, 
for  here  are  two  brothers  separated  for  thirty 
years  by  cruel  distance  and  more  cruel  mis- 
understanding, pressing  each  other's  hands, 
and  smiling  into  each  other's  eyes  the  long  ago 
smiles  of  their  boyhood. 

The  train  has  reached  a  little  station — it 
seems  there  are  stations  in  the  clouds  as  well  as 
on  the  earth — and  the  station-master,  a  little 
old  uncouth  figure  in  mountain  attire,  comes 
limping  out  of  his  wooden  dwelling  to  hoist  an 
old  red  flag,  as  is  his  wont,  and  presently  it 
seems  the  poor  old  cripple  is  transformed,  for  the 
portly  well  dressed  stranger  who  alights  from 
the  train  to  grasp  his  hand,  is  no  other  than  his 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK.  165 

rich  twin  brother,  who  has  come  all  the  long 
way  from  England  to  see  him. 

Smile  on,  poor  little  crippled  station-master! 
Don  for  a  time  the  garments  of  civilization, 
and  descend  into  the  pleasant  valleys,  there  to 
mingle  a  brief  day  with  the  fellow-creatures 
whose  faces  and  manners  you  have  so  nearly 
forgotten;  revel  for  an  hour  in  music,  in  drama, 
in  books,  in  pictures;  drink  your  soul's  fill  of 
all  that  men  call  good  in  crowded  cities,  but 
forget  not  to  return  to  your  cloud-land  home, 
where  every  breeze  that  blows  is  fraught  with 
purity,  and  where  nature's  everlasting  silence  is 
the  solemn  benediction  of  creation. 

Turning  another  page,  we  have  soon  de- 
scended into  a  mine,  apparently  as  far  within 
the  bowels  of  the  earth  as  we  have  just  been 
into  the  clouds.  Down,  down,  down,  we  are 
lowered  by  a  powerful  rope,  our  vehicle  being 


1 66  MY    SKETCH  'BOOK. 

a  mighty  bucket  of  oak  and  iron,  our  only 
light  a  sickly  candle  held  in  the  hand. 

The  further  we  go  the  darker  it  becomes, 
and  the  cavernous  walls  through  which  we  are 
passing,  seem  damp  with  the  slime  of  ages ;  at 
times  the  darkness  becomes  impenetrable,  but 
we  finally  arrive  at  something  we  imagine  to 
be  the  bottom,  where  men  are  working  with 
picks  at  the  cavernous  walls.  More  sickly 
candles  stuck  everywhere  like  pale  eruptions 
on  the  sides  of  a  dark  volcano — more  men 
hurrying  hither  and  thither,  leading  damp,  un- 
healthy, wretched  lives,  their  faces  gleaming 
through  the  darkness  like  those  of  pale  weary 
ghosts.  Few  words  pass  between  them,  as  in 
this  way  much  of  the  noisome  air  is  excluded 
from  the  lungs. 

Little  cars  loaded  with  ores  are  coming  and 
going  all  the  time,  drawn  by  patient  mules 


MY   SKETCH    BOOK.  I 67 

over  narrow  tram-ways;  one  man  is  firing  a 
blast,  and  presently  we  hear  the  tremendous 
report,  when  it  seems  to  us  that  all  the  powers 
of  the  lower  depths  are  let  loose  for  the  de- 
struction of  the  world.  There  is  nothing  pleas- 
ant in  this  subterranean  cavern  or  in  that  which 
is  at  once  the  abode  of  what  is  both  the  gold- 
en curse  and  blessing  of  the  world;  through 
it  all  there  is  a  strong  suggestion  of  the  horri- 
ble struggles  men  must  always  undergo  who 
work  for  money.  Dark  unhealthy  place,  abode 
of  disease,  of  severe  labor  and  often  of  temp- 
tation, crime  and  death,  we  leave  you,  and  seek 
once  more  the  upper  air.  Ah !  never  has  that 
intangible  ether  seemed  so  .sweet,  never  have 
heaven's  rays  smiled  down  upon  us  half  so 
fondly. 

If  you  want  to  appreciate  a  sunshiny  day, 
pass  an  hour  among  the  sickly  horrors  of  a  mine. 


1 68  MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 

Turn  over  the  page.  Why,  what  have  we 
here?  An  African  desert  over  which  the  sum- 
mer heats  are  pouring  with  such  a  degree  of 
fierceness,  that  it  would  seem  king  Sol  had 
some  idea  of  annihilating  the  swarthy  Arabian 
soldiers  who  are  squatting  about  in  the  sand, 
half  naked,  although  armed  to  the  teeth. 
Tents  there  are  in  long  white  rows ;  and  sand, 
sand,  nothing  but  hot,  white  sand  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach. 

It  is  the  eve  of  a  great  battle,  but  it  cannot 
be  said  that  the  thought  of  war  lias  many  ter- 
rors for  these  fierce  men,  who  squat  about  the 
tents  in  strange  fantastic  attire.  War  is  to 
them  the  breath  of  life.  Long  immured  to 
battle,  they,  and  their  noble  steeds  tethered 
there,  at  the  rear  of  the  tents,  think  no  more 
of  a  hot  engagement  than  they  do  of  a  break- 
fast on  their  native  house-tops. 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK.  169 

A  glance  at  them  shows  you  they  are  born 
cut-throats;  noble  figures  they  are,  too,  there 
in  the  strange  contrast  of  the  white  burning 
sand,  and  the  vast  background  of  snowy  tents. 
The  Arabic  commander,  a  tall  man  in  a 
European  costume,  paces  back  and  forth,  time 
after  time,  through  the  length  of  his  spacious 
tent,  and  wishes,  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart, 
for  sunset,  and  an  abatement  of  the  heat;  the 
greater  part  of  his  life  he  has  spent  in  Europe, 
and  he  dares  not  expose  his  body  to  the  fierce 
rays  of  the  sun,  as  his  more  hardened  country- 
men can  do.  He  is  nervous  to-night,  too; 
you  see  there  is  an  English  prisoner  in  the 
Arabic  camp,  who  is  to  be  shot  dead  for  some 
trivial  offense,  to-morrow  at  day-break,  and 
although  the  commander  is  obliged  to  see  that 
the  deed  is  done,  his  heart,  hard  as  it  may  be, 
is  bitterly  against  it,  and  cries  "reprieve," 


I/O  MY   SKETCH    BOOK. 

against  all  his  better  military  judgment 
They  have  met  before,  these  two  men,  at 
Oxford,  where  they  were  both  students,  and 
once  in  a  tour  through  Italy.  "  It  is  hard," 
muses  the  commander,  "  to  shoot  down  a  man 
whom  one  knows,  like  a  dog,"  but  he  knows 
there  is  no  escape,  knows  what  rigid  penalty 
a  man  must  pay  for  commanding  a  heathen 
army;  and  so  his  weary  walk  goes  on,  and  he 
does  not  pause  until  a  shadowr  falls  in  the  door- 
way, and  his  name  is  pronounced  in  thrilling 
pleading  accents. 

A  girl,  small  and  dark  and  lovely — a  girl 
with  a  piquant  face,  and  great  burning  black 
eyes,  her  slight  form  clad  in  some  scarlet  thing 
that  is  floating  at  her  saddle,  flings  the  reins  of 
her  horse,  who  is  streaked  with  foam  and  dust, 
to  a  soldier,  and  throws  herself,  half-fainting, 
into  the  commander's  arms.  The  horse  sinks 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 


down  there  in  the  sand  and  closes  his  eyes. 
The  zouaves  say  he  cannot  live  till  morning. 
She  has  ridden  the  noble  animal  to  death. 

The  officer  lays  the  girl  on  his  own  soft 
couch,  bids  an  attendant  bathe  her  face  and 
give  her  cooling  drink,  and  calls  a  slave  to  care 
for  the  dying  horse.  The  girl  is  Cosette,  the 
brave  French  child,  whom  they  have  long 
since  made  the  daughter  of  their  army;  the 
girl  who  has  ridden  at  the  head  of  long  lines 
of  troops  through  all  the  hottest  engagements 
of  the  war  ;  the  girl  whose  voice  has  long  been 
heard  among  the  swarthy  hosts,  and  whose 
military  tactics  and  great  presence  of  mind, 
are  equal  to  those  of  any  commander  in  Africa. 

The  officer  is  deeply  touched  to  see  her  in  so 
weak  a  condition.  What  can  bring  her  here, 
on  this  mad  ride  of  life  and  death?  Has  she 
been  pursued  by  the  enemy  ? 


1/2  MY   SKETCH    BOOK. 

"No,"  she  gasps  out,  she  can  talk  now, 
thanks  to  the  iced  wine  and  the  great  fans  that 
are  always  moving  in  the  tent.  "  It  is  about — 
about  the  English  prisoner,  she  has  come  to 
speak."  She  has  known  him  many  years.  He 
is  a  good  man.  He  did  not  mean  that  trivial 
insult  he  had  accidentally  given  the  African 
army.  Oh!  no;  she  knew  it  was  not  in  the 
commander's  power  to  revoke  the  sentence, 
but  there  was  always  a  clause  in  those  savage 
death  sentences  of  the  desert  which  read: 
"  Unless  another  will  die  in  the  prisoner's  stead." 
Here  her  eyes  kindled :  "  I  have  come  to  die 
for  the  young  Englishman,"  she  says,  as  quietly 
as  one  might  say,  "  I  am  come  to  dine." 

"  Because  you  love  him  ?  "  the  officer  asks. 

"  Because  I  love  him,"  Cosette  replies.  And 
thus  it  is  that  when  the  morning  breaks  over 
the  tents,  and  the  burning  sand  reflects  a 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 


thousand  dusky  shadows  in  its  white  deeps, 
the  girl  with  the  piquant  face  is  brought  for- 
ward, and  shot  dead  through  the  heart,  in  the 
face  of  the  assembled  army. 

Dead  with  all  the  sins  of  her  loose  immoral 
life  upon  her  pretty  head;  dead  before  the 
sands  of  time  had  yet  doled  out  one  pitiful 
score  of  years;  dead  'ere  she  had  known  good 
from  evil  ;  dead  for  the  man  she  loved. 

And  I  think  if  there  is  a  heaven,  she  is  there, 
for  to  me  she  is  the  noblest  picture  in  all  my 
sketch-book,  and  far  away  as  are  the  time  and 
place,  across  the  long  lapse  of  years,  away  off 
there  in  that  white  African  desert,  I  can  feel 
the  pressure  of  those  little  dark  hot  hands,  and 
catch  a  glimpse  of  that  sweet  unselfish  face, 
which  to  me  is  lovelier  than  that  of  any  saint. 
What  a  vivid  picture  it  is,  that  sketch  of  the 
great  army  beneath  the  burning  sun,  and  that 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 


poor  child  come  as  a  deliverer  to  her  lover! 
But  let  us  turn  the  page.  The  next  sketch 
is>«a  scene  in  the  black  forests  of  Louisiana.  It 
is  night;  owls  are  hooting  in  the  branches  of 
great  trees  ;  poisonous  vines  and  thick  under- 
brush crawl  along  the  ground;  there  is  not 
even  a  path  through  the  forest,  so  dense  are 
the  noisome  creepers.  There  is  no  moon,  and 
a  young  traveler  misled  by  the  delusive  ignus 
fatuus,  has  lost  his  way,  and  sunk  to  his  waist 
in  a  treacherous  marsh  there  among  the  trees. 
He  is  terrified  beyond  expression.  The 
bright  eyes  of  wild  beasts  glare  at  him  from  all 
parts  of  the  forest;  anon  he  hears  the  deep 
coarse  sound  of  their  voices,  and  he  shudders 
and  moans,  and  cries  aloud  for  help.  Rattle- 
snakes go  by  with  that  dread  whirring  sound 
which  in  so  many  cases  means  instant  death; 
great  frightful  birds  flap  their  wings  in  the 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 


black  sky;  it  is  a  time  of  horror  and  despair. 
As  the  night  advances,  he  manages  to  extri- 
cate himself  from  the  marsh,  but  is  unable  to 
make  his  way  out  of  the  forest,  and  so  spends 
a  most  wretched  night  there  under  the  trees. 
He  is  wrought  up  to  a  highly  nervous  state, 
and  during  the  long  night,  evil  spirits,  long 
since  banished  to  these  swamps,  come  to  him, 
and  seek  to  drag  him  far  away  to  darker 
haunts.  It  is  one  of  them  you  see  there  in  the 
picture,  that  shadowy  being  there,  in  a  sable 
garment.  These  are  the  spirits  of  murderers, 
of  thieves,  of  defrauders,  of  assassins;  of  vil- 
lains whose  crimes  were  so  intangible  as  to 
avoid  the  clutches  of  the  law,  but  whose  spirits 
are  now  the  blackest  of  them  all. 

Oh  !  what  a  horrible  night.  How  the  owls 
hoot,  how  the  wild  eyes  glare,  and  how  those 
stealthy  spirits  steal  back  and  forth  through 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 


the  poisonous  foliage.  The  traveler  imagines 
his  dark  locks  to  be  turning  white  with  terror, 
and  instinctively  puts  up  his  hand  to  his  head 
—  just  then  the  blessed  rays  of  morning  break 
over  the  forest;  the  beasts  retire  to  their  lairs 
and  the  owls  to  their  accustomed  hiding-places 
in  the  trees.  Of  a  sudden,  the  spirits  of  evil 
stalk  no  longer  amid  the  woody  aisles,  and  an 
ebony  teamster,  driving  a  pair  of  homely  oxen, 
comes  riding  into  view  on  the  traveled  road, 
which  the  youth  now  sees  so  distinctly,  and 
which  to  him  has  been  so  near  and  yet  so  far 
all  the  long  night. 

Oh!  joy,  the  negro  is  singing.  His  rich 
voice  rings  out  in  a  plantation  melody,  and 
quite  puts  to  rout  all  the  darksome  influences 
of  the  sombre  shadowy  place.  The  boy 
springs  to  his  feet,  shouts  with  all  his  might, 
glad  to  use  his  lungs  again.  The  negro  hears 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK.  177 

him,  and  calls  "  whoa,"  to  the  oxen,  in  a  tone 
they  never  fail  to  understand;  rolls  the  whites 
of  his  eyes,  in  a  manner  expressive  of  how 
fearful  a  night  in  that  lonely  place  would  be  to 
him,  and,  hospitably  making  room  for  the  be- 
nighted traveler,  drives  quickly  away  from  the 
sombre  scene. 

And  so  the  young  man  and  the  negro  travel 
on  together,  and  I  am  sure  if  the  traveler  lives 
to  be  a  very  old  man,  he  can  never  forget  the 
horrors  of  that  night  in  the  black  forest. 

Turning  another  page,  we  come  suddenly 
upon  a  gorgeous  sunset,  and  the  rippling  water 
of  a  great  bay.  Many  sails  dot  the  dimpled 
water;  on  the  decks,  bands  of  wandering 
musicians  awake  sweet  notes  from  instruments 
which,  judging  by  their  appearance,  have  seen 
the  sun  and  storm  of  every  civilized  country  in 
the  world ;  swarthy  Italians  these  vagrants  are, 


1 78  MY   SKETCH    BOOK. 

dirty,  uncouth,  lazy,  sprawling  about  the  deck, 
their  dark  figures  set  off  by  gaudy  fringes  and 
fantastic  rags.  What  a  strange  group  they  are ! 
How  ragged,  self-satisfied  and  happy. 

The  little  boat  is  taking  a  sunset  sail  to 
Staten  Island,  where  the  great  steep  banks  are 
so  green  and  mossy,  and  the  queer  little  streets 
so  sleepy  and  quiet.  One  can  almost  imagine 
himself  as  he  walks  along,  to  be  the  sole  per- 
son in  the  place.  Presently  you  approach  a 
tiny  pie-shop;  the  door  is  open,  but  there  is  no 
one  within;  rows  of  sleepy  sodden  pies  are 
ranged  along  the  dusty  shelves,  and  a  dozen 
bottles  of  sweet  cider  complete  the  stock  of  this 
not  very  enterprising  establishment.  You  ring 
a  cracked  bell,  and  after  an  interval  of  some 
five  minutes,  a  little  old  woman  appears  in 
snowy  cap  and  silver  spectacles,  looking  at  you 
wonderingly  over  the  tops  of  them,  as  if  to 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK.  179 

say,  "can  you  possibly  want  pie?"  and  all  the 
time  she  is  handing  one  down  from  the  shelves 
and  wrapping  it  up  with  an  old  woman's  nicety, 
her  expression  is  plainly  one  of  protest,  that 
you  should  have  disturbed  her  from  that  fra- 
grant cup  of  tea  she  was  engaged  in  sipping 
in  the  parlor  back  of  the  shop. 

As  you  leave  the  place,  you  hear  the  old 
lady  trotting  briskly  back  to  her  evening  re- 
freshment, and  you  go  and  throw  yourself  on 
the  pier,  where  the  Italians,  comfort-loving 
fellows,  are  sprawling  before  you,  and  you  gaze 
out  over  the  bay  and  watch  the  reflection  of 
the  sunset  colors  in  the  clear  water,  and  throw 
bits  of  pie  you  have  just  purchased  to  the 
greedy  fishes,  who  are,  by  far,  the  most  ener- 
getic beings  about  the  island;  and,  as  the  twi- 
light deepens,  you  take  your  place  leisurely  in 
the  returning  ferry,  and  give  yourself  up  to 


ISO  MY   SKETCH    BOOK. 

reverie,  as  you  steam  back  to  the  city,  and  the 
faint  sound  of  music  over  the  water  lulls  your 
senses  to  quiet  repose. 

Turning  another  page,  a  country  school- 
house  bursts  upon  our  view;  here  the  old 
desks,  cut  with  a  hundred  names  and  dates; 
the  cracked  black-board,  and  the  teacher's 
rickety  chair,  all  serve  to  remind  you  of  the 
days  that  are  gone.  How  you  languished 
when  a  child,  seated  on  those  high  stiff 
benches,  all  the  long  hot  afternoons.  How 
the  sun  used  to  beat  in  at  those  'curtainless 
windows,  and  the  schoolma'am's  ferule  used  to 
descend  upon  your  small  brown  hand.  How 
much  you  used  to  wish  you  were  a  man,  that 
you  might  escape  these  tortures,  and  live  in 
the  green  fields. 

Well,  have  you  found  consolation  in  the 
green  fields  of  life  ?  Have  you  found  aught  to 


MY   SKETCH    BOOK.  l8l 

console  you  for  the  loss  of  your  sweet  dreamy 
youth,  for  the  crash  of  the  idols  that  fell  all  too 
soon? 

Let  us  turn  on.  Why,  what  is  this?  A 
marble  palace;  one  apartment  in  azure,  one  in 
amethyst,  one  in  dark  variegated  gems,  and  one 
in  the  exact  colors  of  that  South  American 
lapis  lazuli  you  admire  so  much.  Marble  halls, 
marble  stairways,  marble  mantels,  marble 
floors,  and  broad  marble  steps  like  those  lead- 
ing up  out  of  the  water  to  the  Venetian  palaces. 
Such  a  wealth  of  magnificent  marbles!  Such 
a  profusion  of  it,  as  if  it  might  be  had  for  the 
asking,  or  as  if  the  builder  had  the  gold  of 
kings  at  his  command. 

Is  it  an  enchanted  palace?  No;  it  is  only 
the  city  hall  at  Baltimore;  but  it  is  grand  and 
spacious  enough  for  the  abode  of  royalty.  Is 
there  any  woe,  want  or  suffering  in  the  land, 


1 82  MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 

that  might  be  wholly  relieved  with  one-tenth 
of  the  price  of  those  costly  marbles  that  go  to 
make  up  this  proud  edifice?  Perhaps  so,  but 
could  you  find  it  in  your  heart  to  destroy  this 
temple  of  beauty,  this  priceless  thing  of  stone 
and  marble  that  will  endure  for  centuries,  a 
monument  to  American  taste  and  enterprise? 
As  an  easy  way  of  answering  a  difficult  ques- 
tion, let  us  turn  another  page,  whereon  the  pic- 
ture is  that  of  a  shining  river  on  a  June  day, 
with  two  little  steamers  plying  up  and  down. 
The  day  is  as  brilliant  as  sun  and  summer- 
time can  make  it;  the  green  banks  on  either 
side,  remind  one  of  the  land  of  the  shamrock ; 
away  off  there  among  clusters  of  green  trees, 
white  cottages  are  half  hidden  in  the  shade, 
and  an  occasional  gleam  of  vivid  scarlet,  tells 
of  the  flowers  that  spring  so  naturally  from 
this  luxuriant  soil. 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK.  183 

Then,  too,  there  are  vast  stone  mansions  set 
in  deep  parks  of  living  green,  with  massive 
stone  gates  to  which  huge  lions  are  guarding 
the  entrance;  here  and  there  a  comfortable 
family  carriage  rolls  slowly  up  a  long  avenue, 
and  the  sw.eet  melody  of  children's  voices  rings 
out  in  the  clear  air. 

All  this  we  see  as  we  lounge  about  the  deck 
of  the  little  steamer,  which  goes  paddling 
swiftly  along  through  the  bright  water.  The 
captain  is  a  cheery  Yankee,  with  a  brown  face 
and  a  brisk  air,  and  smiles  so  pleasantly  when 
he  lifts  his  blue  cap,  that  we  are  forced  to  like 
him  from  that  time  on,  and  doubtless  succeed 
in  making  ourselves  felt  in  the  number  of  ques- 
tions we  propound,  if  nothing  else. 

Who  are  these,  we  ask,  as  a  half  dozen  stal- 
wart fellows  in  a  uniform  of  coarse  blue  and 
white  bed-ticking,  appear  on  the  deck  with 


184  MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 

pails  and  brushes,  and  begin  to  scour  the  little 
craft  from  bow  to  stern. 

"What,  you  don't  know?"  the  captain  says 
in  surprise.  "  Don't  you  know  you  are  on  a 
prison  boat,  and  that  every  servant  and  official 
in  the  whole  crew,  except  myself,  are  reformed 
convicts,  serving  out  a  probationary  term  on 
board?" 

In  spite  of  ourselves,  we  connot  help  shud- 
dering a  little  at  this,  the  day  is  so  bright,  and 
crime,  with  her  attendant  punishments,  seems 
so  far  away.  We  knew,  of  course,  when  we 
took  passage  for  Blackwell,  that  we  were  on 
the  way  to  explore  a  colony  of  criminals,  but  a 
steamer  stocked  with  convicts — that  was 
almost  beyond  our  comprehension. 

"  Come  down  stairs,"  the  captain  says  pleas- 
antly. "See  the  kitchens  and  the  cooks." 

We  follow  him  down  a  narrow  stairway  and 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK.  185 

descend  into  the  whitest  and  brightest  of 
kitchens,  where  a  plain,  savoury  dinner  is 
roasting,  boiling  and  sputtering  on  a  shining 
range,  and  two  women  in  clean  bed-tick  dresses, 
with  hair  neatly  combed,  and  narrow  white 
collars  about  their  necks,  are  superintending  all 
the  roasting,  boiling  and  sputtering  of  the  long 
range. 

The  women  make  us  little  jerky  polite  bows. 
Poor  souls!  I  think  their  dark,  pinched  faces 
show  more  ignorance  than  guilt,  and  the  cap- 
tain tells  us  as  we  go  up-stairs,  that  they  as 
well  as  the  entire  crew  are  docile  as  lambs. 

Everywhere  we  go,  men  and  boys  in  this 
same  garb,  are  employed  in  some  capacity 
about  the  steamer;  the  cooks,  the  engineers, 
the  deck  hands,  the  porters,  all  wear  the  same 
badge  of  degradation  and  servitude,  and  yet 
methinks  their  faces  are  not  unhappy,  so  great 


1 86  MY    SKETCH    BOOK. 

a  power  for  good  are  discipline  and  right  living. 
These  poor  things,  in  all  likelihood,  never  had 
so  excellent  a  home,  as  this  poor  shabby  little 
floating  prison;  never  had  such  kind,  firm 
words  as  they  have  from  this  sun-burned  cap- 
tain; never  had  such  appetizing  food  as  they 
have  from  th  ose  generous  kettles  in  that  white 
kitchen,  and  so,  reflecting  on  all  this,  sad  that 
crime  exists,  yet  bowing  before  the  sage  wisdom 
of  our  glorious  government,  which  provides 
cleanly  homes  and  healthy  food  for  these  poor 
creatures,  we  dream  away  the  June  hours  on 
that  little  prison  steamer,  while  the  blue  smil- 
ing heavens  bend  above  us,  and  the  green 
banks  keep  receding  in  the  distance. 

There  is  so  much  sadness  here,  in  spite  of  all 
the  air  of  cheeriness  and  order,  that  we  have 
little  to  say  to  each  other,  but  remain  sunk  in 
reverie  until  Randall  Island  is  reached,  and 


MY    SKETCH    BOOK.  187 

fifty  convicts  are  brought  on  board  and  em- 
barked for  the  Blackwell  prison. 

One,  two,  three.  The  captain  gives  the  sig- 
nal, and  the  poor  wretches  of  all  ages,  colors 
and  sexes,  come  clanking  their  chains  over  the 
gang-way,  keeping  as  perfect  time  as  a  regiment 
of  soldiers.  How  sullen  they  are.  Great  bur- 
ley  fellows  for  the  most  part,  with  arms  and 
limbs  that  have  defied  bolt  and  bar  for  man}'  a 
long  year;  large  muscular  hands  theirs  are, 
that  have  picked  many  a  lock,  and  some  have 
doubtless  been  stained  with  blood. 

Truly  this  is  a  pitiful  sight,  and  there  is  a 
hush  like  that  of  death  over  the  boat,  as  they 
silently  enter,  and  are  conducted  to  their  places 
in  the  lower  part  of  the  boat. 

But  while  their  chains  are  clanking,  the  sun 
in  heaven  is  shining,  and  when  at  the  next 
island,  a  rude  box  containing  the  dead  body  of 


1 88  MY   SKETCH    BOOK. 

a  child,  is  lowered  into  the  boat  by  means  of 
ropes,  those  dark  savage  fellows,  cut-throats, 
thieves,  assassins,  pause  in  their  long  strides  to 
lift  their  caps  one  and  all,  with  military  pre- 
cision, in  the  presence  of  the  common  enemy. 

And  as  I  gaze  on  the  poor  wretches,  and 
think  of  the  little  weary  soul  there  in  the  box, 
who  will  never  know  pain  nor  want,  nor  mis- 
ery, it  seems  to  me  that  the  blue  sky  is  send- 
ing a  smile  of  love  down  into  the  hard  faces  of 
the  convicts,  while  the  little  box  is  lowered  into 
a  cool  place  in  the  steamer. 

Two  hours  later,  there  is  a  tiny  green  grave 
in  a  shady  nook  at  Blackwell,  which  marks 
the  resting  place  of  the  little  stranger. 


AN  AUGUST  VISION. 


AN  AUGUST  VISION. 

£»•' 

FORLORN  cabin  situated  with- 
in one  of  those  dry,  treeless  stretch - 
?  es  of  country  known  in  the  central 
western  states  as  "  barrens,"  a  man 
with  a  grizzly  beard,  alternately 
smoking  and  dozing  just  outside  the  door  on 
a  rude  wooden  bench ;  a  child  playing  in  the 
yellow  sand  which  surrounds  the  curb-stone; 
over  all,  the  fierce  rays  of  the  pitiless  August 
sun,  whose  steady  glare,  unbroken  .by  the 
slightest  foliage  of  any  kind,  descends  in  fiery 
wrath  upon  the  luckless  men  and  beasts  who 
populate  this  unfertile  section.  A  little  drouth 


194  AN    AUGUST    VISION. 

acts  as  a  famine  here  and  reduces  the  inhabi- 
tants to  the  most  pitiful  conditions  of  disease 
and  want.  The  terrible  heat  throws  a  fearful 
torpor  over  everything.  Dogs  go  mad,  and 
men  not  infrequently  commit  acts  of  despera- 
tion and  violence,  after  a  long  dry  season,  when 
their  efforts  have  availed  them  nothing,  and 
with  winter  fast  approaching,  they  find  they 
have  no  means  of  subsistence  or  support. 

The  man  moans  and  murmurs  in  his  sleep, 
and  the  child,  alarmed  by  the  strange  sounds, 
drops  her  handful  of  sand,  and  sets  up  a  long, 
low  wail,  digging  her  little  bare  toes  into  the 
hot  dry  soil,  and  wiping  away  the  tears  with 
the  hem  of  her  coarse,  soiled,  little  dress,  which 
is  the  only  one  she  has  in  the  world. 

Within  the  house  naught  is  heard  save  the 
buzzing  'of  the  rapacious  flies,  which  blacken 
every  thing  with  their  obnoxious  presence. 


AN    AUGUST    VISION.  195 

Wholly  unmindful  of  the  wretched  disturb- 
ances these  annoying  insects  create,  as  well  as 
of  the  pitiful  cries  of  the  child,  a  pale,  fragile 
woman  crouches  silently  in  a  dirty  corner  of 
the  room,  her  hands  clasped  and  her  eyes  fixed 
on  vacancy,  with  that  dull,  hopeless  look 
which  trouble  always,  sorrow  never  brings. 
Her  apathy  is  perfect.  She  is  as  wholly  un- 
conscious of  her  surroundings  as  if  she  were  a 
thousand  miles  from  that  cursed  spot,  which 
has  thrown  a  blight  upon  her  life  from  which 
she  can  never  hope  to  recover. 

Honor,  pride  in  well-doing,  has  been  this 
woman's  motto  through  life.  Her  face  is  deli- 
cate and  sensitive,  even  in  its  advanced  age 
and  in  all  its  wretched  setting  of  squalid  mis- 
ery. From  her  youth  up  she  has  abhorred 
wrong  actions,  and  kept  them  at  bay,  as  men 
do  their  mortal  enemies.  And  now,  this  burn- 


196  AN    AUGUST    VISION. 

ing,  sickening  day,  in  the  midst  of  these  terri- 
ble heats,  there  is  wafted  to  her  a  hot  and 
poisonous  breeze  which  tells  her  that  she  is 
the  mother  of  a  convicted  thief! 

This  is  the  message  which  has  traveled 
across  the  almost  desert  sands  of  the  country 
she  hates  with  such  bitter  intensity ;  this  is  the 
recompense  for  all  the  long  years  of  care  and 
pain,  which  only  mothers  know  and  suffer.  A 
steely  hardness  has  entered  her  heart.  In  her 
stern  judgment  she  finds  no  palliation,  no  ex- 
piating circumstances,  no  lingering  tenderness 
for  the  guilty  wretch  who,  after  all,  is  the  child 
of  her  young  love — the  living  pledge  of  all 
her  life  of  constancy  and  devotion. 

The  man  rouses  himself  from  his  stupor, 
enters  the  doorway,  and  gazes  at  her  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  half  savage  tenderness  and 
pity;  but  she  never  moves  a  muscle  or  un- 


AX    AUGUST    VISION.  197 

clasps  her  frail,  thin  hands  from  the  position 
she  has  held  them  in  since  morning. 

"  Marthy,  wife,"  he  says,  brokenly,  "won't  ye 
speak  to  me;  won't  ye  say  he's  not  altogether 
to  blame?  Its  hard  to  go  hungry,  Marthy, 
and — and — ." 

There  is  a  sound  of  hoofs  on  the  road  out- 
side, and  the  woman,  though  she  does  not  re- 
ply, looks  wearily  out  at  the  narrow  doorway, 
but  turns  coldly  away  as  she  beholds  a  mes- 
senger, covered  with  dust  and  foam  from  his 
long  hot  ride.  She  crosses  the  room  without 
speaking  to  him,  but  he  follows  her,  and 
whispers  hoarsely  in  her  ear,  "There  was  a 
suicide  in  our  town  to-day — your  daughter." 

Her  apathy  is  broken,  there  is  a  faint  shriek, 
a  cry  to  heaven  for  mercy,  and  the  much-tried 
woman  moans  and  struggles  in  her  last  sharp 
agony. 


AN    AUGUST    VISION. 


The  country  side  is  rife  with  dreadful  gossip; 
the  sunset  sky  seems  red  with  blood;  the  fear- 
ful heat  like  unto  that  of  hades.  There  is  a 
sharp  ring  at  the  door  bell,  and  I  awake  from 
my  horrible  afternoon  nap  to  find  that  the 
servant  has  fastened  both  sets  of  blinds  so 
closely  that  the  atmosphere  is  suffocating  to 
oppression,  and  my  brain  is  in  a  whirl  of 
fevered  heat.  I  dash  a  glass  of  ice-water  over 
my  face,  and  advance  to  meet  my  guest,  my 
nerves  still  thrilling  with  pity  for  the  poor 
wretches  who,  thank  heaven,  existed  only  in 
the  extravagant  fancy  of  my  vision. 


COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  WINTER. 


COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  WINTER. 

IsS? 

"  'REAKFAST,  a  meal  that  quite  puts 
(Sto  shame  a  fashionable  luncheon,  is 

had    before    daylight,    and    by    nine 
> 

o'clock  on  a  snowy  winter  morning 
(the  house  has  been  put  in  order,  the 
milk  taken  care  of,  and  the  good  wife  and 
daughters,  with  smoothed  hair  and  fresh  calico 
aprons,  have  settled  quietly  down  to  the  sew- 
ing or  patch  work,  with  which  the  family  bas- 
ket is  always  full  and  running  over,  for  idle 
hands  have  no  place  in  the  economy  of  farm 
life.  Gorgeous  bed  quilts  are  always  on  the 
way,  and  she  who  has  not  a  store  of  them  is 
considered  a  shiftless,  worthless  sort  of  girl, 


2C-4       COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  WINTER. 

who  has  no  reason  to  expect  a  husband,  and 
indeed,  is  not  thought  deserving  of  one. 
Grandmother  always  knits,  as  her  eyesight  is 
failing,  and  her  practiced  hands  can  almost 
"heel  and  toe"  a  stocking  in  the  dark;  and 
then  there  are  always  three  or  four  calico 
dresses  in  process  of  making,  for  these  women 
are  their  own  dressmakers,  and  the  little  low- 
ceiled  bedrooms  are  always  hung  full  of  first, 
second  and  third-best  calicos,  which  are  don- 
ned with  as  great  a  respect  for  occasion  as  a 
city  belle  shows  when  she  dresses  for  a  dinner, 
a  reception,  or  an  evening  party. 

The  women  have  not  been  settled  around 
the  big  wood-fire  long,  when  they  are  joined 
by  the  men,  who  have  done  the  "feeding," 
which  is  about  the  sum  total  of  their  day's 
labor,  when  the  weather  is  very  cold.  They 
come  in  stamping  like  a  regiment  of  soldiers, 


COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  WINTER.       2O5 

and  while  one  of  them  draws  up  the  heavy 
well-sweep  for  mother,  another  one  lights  a 
candle  and  repairs  to  the  cellar,  from  which  he 
presently  ascends  with  a  pitcher  of  sparkling 
cider,  almost  as  good  as  champagne,  and  an- 
swering just  the  same  purpose  for  these  sim- 
ple folk,  many  of  whom  have  not  as  much  as 
heard  of  the  former  beverage. 

If  the  stage  got  in  over  the  bad  roads  yes- 
terday, Goodman  Farmer  has  his  weekly  pa- 
pers to-day,  and  does  not  have  to  give  hurried 
glances  over  them,  while  he  scalds  his  mouth 
with  blue-milk  coffee,  getting  just  about  half 
the  coffee  and  the  paper  swallowed,  when  he 
is  obliged  to  drop  them  both  to  catch  the  early 
car  to  the  city.  No  indeed,  eating  in  the 
country  is  too  serious  a  business  to  slight  in 
that  way,  and  besides,  there  is  plenty  of  time 
for  everything.  Who  ever  thought  of  hurry- 


2O6  COUNTRY    LIFE    IN    WINTER. 

ing?  The  idea  has  certainly  never  occurred  to 
him;  and  only  a  fire,  which  is  a  rare  occurrence 
in  these  rural  solitudes,  could  induce  him  to  so 
rash  an  action.  He  reads  the  paper  long  and 
thoroughly,  not  an  advertisement  escapes  him, 
and  when  he  has  finished,  his  quiet  wife  stretches 
out  her  hand  for  it,  and  eagerly  hunts  the  story 
column  in  a  manner  that  would  go  straight  to 
the  heart  of  the  struggling  young  author  who 
wrote  it,  could  he  see  the  avidity  with  which  it  is 
seized  upon.  If  the  editor  has  seen  fit  to 
crowd  out  the  story  this  week,  her  counte- 
nance falls,  and  her  pleasure  for  the  day  is 
spoiled. 

There  is  not  a  book  store  for  ten  miles 
around,  and  when  they  do  go  "to  town,"  John 
Thomas  says  kindly,  "  I  wouldn't  spend  money 
for  books,  Maria ;  buy  yourself  a  gown  or  a 
pair  of  shoes." 


COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  WINTER.       2O/ 

And  so  the  winter  days  go  by.  The  store- 
house contains  a  barrel  of  nuts,  and  another  of 
pop-corn,  and  if  it  is  baking  day,  the  men  hud- 
dle about  the  stove,  and  complacently  test  the 
fragrant  cakes  and  pies  as  they  come  out  of 
the  oven  deliciously  brown  and  appetizing. 

If  the  weather  is  not  too  cold  for  the  horses, 
they  decide  upon  a  visit  to  a  friend  some  miles 
distant,  and  when  all  are  packed  up  in  shawls 
and  blankets,  the  big  bob-sled,  surmounted  by 
the  wagon-box,  draws  up  before  the  house,  and 
the  party  clamber  in  promiscuously,  and  settle 
down  upon  the  soft  fragrant  hay  which  makes 
as  soft  a  cushion  as  one  could  wish  for.  O! 
there  is  nothing  so  charming  as  this  jolly  way 
of  sleigh-riding,  which  is  a  thousand  times 
more  smooth  and  satisfactory  than  bumping 
along  in  a  modern  high-backed  cutter.  If  you 
are  cold,  just  bury  your  head  in  "  mother's  lap  " 


2O8       COUNTRY  LIFE  IN  WINTER. 

and  your  feet  in  the  section  of  hay-stack  under 
you,  and  you  won't  be  so  long. 

The  horses  feel  good  because  they  have 
nothing  to  do  at  this  season  of  the  year,  and 
they  skim  along  over  the  broad  smooth  roads 
in  a  way  that  would  exhilarate  a  mummy. 
There  is  no  fear  of  crushing  velvets  or  satins, 
and  you  can  walk  over  the  lap-robes  half  a  day 
if  you  like  without  some  one  shouting,  "Be 
careful,  you're  on  the  robe,"  or,  "  You'll  spoil 
all  that  embroidery  I  did  for  John."  John 
Thomas  has  never  heard  of  an  embroidered  lap- 
robe,  and  I  dare  say  he  is  just  as  happy  as  if 
he  had.  He  is  king  of  the  soil,  and,  if  he  only 
knew  it,  has  more  leisure  and  more  down-right 
independence  than  half  the  struggling  business 
men  in  yonder  haughty  city,  to  whose  streets, 
like  unto  those  of  want  and  care,  he  is  an  abso- 
lute and  utter  stranger. 


SISTER   PACHITA. 


SISTER  PACHITA. 

<-* 
T  was  sunset  in  the  San  Luis  valley. 

He  desires  no  description  of  these 
mountain  sunsets  who  has  witnessed 
the  divine  portrayal  on  the  skies.  The 
heavens  become  a  canvas  whose  length 
and  breadth  is  immeasurable,  whose  delicate 
tints  must  put  to  shame  the  touch  of  the 
greatest  masters  of  the  world. 

To  all  fanciful  natures  there  is  an  indefinite 
charm  in  solitude,  and  'Chita  felt  it  too  in  her 
own  mute,  untaught  way.  Poor  little  'Chita! 
— the  sun-browned,  dark-eyed  daughter  of  the 
mountains;  the  child  of  old  Manuel,  the 
ranchero;  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  settlement, 


214  SISTER    PACHITA. 

the  Americanos  said,  when  the  first  train  had 
bounded  over  Veta  Pass  to  Alamosa,  and  the 
train-men  had  caught  sight  of  the  girl  hanging 
carelessly  to  a  cluster  of  shrubbery  half-way 
up  the  mountain  side;  a  picture  of  slender 
grace  and  native  ease.  'Chita  had  been  spell- 
bound when  she  had  first  seen  that  train  career- 
ing fairly  into  space  over  the  dizzy  heights. 
It  had  been  a  hot  night,  and  when  the  train 
stopped  on  the  pass,  she  had  seen  numbers  of 
God-like  creatures — all  Americanos,  old  Man- 
uel had  told  her,  many  of  them  as  blue-eyed 
and  fair-haired,  she  thought,  as  the  gaudy 
blonde  angels  in  her  mother's  old  Catholic 
bible.  And  they  had  all  seen  her — that  slen- 
der, willowy  figure  with  the  little  bare  brown 
feet  and  the  soiled  toggery  of  her  kind,  perched 
away  up  there  in  such  quaint  relief  among  the 
rocks. 


SISTER    PACHITA.  215 

All  this  had  happened  three  years  ago;  a 
very  great  while  ago,  'Chita  thought.  She  had 
been  a  child  then,  she  was  a  woman  now;  and 
Manuel  had  brought  her  a  pair  of  shoes  from 
Alamosa,  and  she  had  learned  to  comb  out 
her  long  thick  hair,  and  plait  it  neatly — 
taught  by  a  lady  tourist  who  had  come  to  the 
valley  to  sketch.  She  had  learned  to  read 
through  the  same  agency,  and  'Chita,  now  six- 
teen, and  beautiful  as  a  star,  was  beginning  to 
show  signs  of  restlessness  which  her  parents 
liked  ill  indeed.  "  It  was  all  the  shoes'  doings," 
old  Manuel  said;  "she  would  have  them  after 
the  Americanos  came  through  with  the  train," 
"that  abomination  of  satan,"  he  called  it.  But 
old  Lisa,  her  mother,  shook  her  head  wisely, 
affirming  that  it  was  more  likely  to  have  been 
the  hair-plaiting,  as  the  latter  occasioned  more 
peeps  in  the  little  cracked  mirror  over  the 


2l6  SISTER    PACHITA. 

chimney-piece  than  the  former  could  possibly 
have  done. 

However  all  this  may  have  been,  certain  it 
was  that  'Chita  was  growing  restless  in  her 
mountain  home,  where  there  was  nothing  for 
her  to  do  except  tend  the  garden,  which  throve 
quite  as  well  without  tending  in  that  warm 
southern  climate.  There  was  the  house,  of 
course — if  Manuel's  shanty  might  carry  so 
dignified  a  name — but  any  sort  of  care  in  that 
direction  old  Lisa  regarded  as  pure  desecration, 
and  the  preparation  of  the  chili-colorado  and 
mutton,  was  far  too  serious  a  task  to  be  en- 
trusted to  a  child  like  'Chita.  Her  four 
brothers  were  out  hunting  and  fishing  most  of 
the  time,  only  returning  in  time  to  take  their 
share  from  the  unfailing  mess  in  the  kettle,  and 
then  to  curl  themselves  up  in  their  dingy  blan- 
kets and  sleep  perhaps  until  noon  the  next  day. 


SISTER    PACHITA.  2  I'J 

Old  Manuel  tilled  a  small  field,  sowing  it 
with  his  hands,  plowing  it,  as  his  father  had 
done  before  him,  with  the  forked  limb  of  a 
tree,  and  reaping  it  with  an  old  scythe  that 
hung  just  outside  the  door  all  the  year  round. 

Why  had  he  not  machines  to  do  these 
things,  'Chita  asked.  The  Americanos  said 
they  had  them  in  the  north.  Could  he  not  find 
them  if  he  traveled  far  enough,  and  so  do  his 
work  better  and  more  easily. 

Manuel  answered  angrily.  What  was  the 
matter  with  'Chita?  Would  she  turn  Ameri- 
cano too,  and  leave  him  in  his  old  age,  as  some 
of  the  daughters  of  the  colony  had  left  their 
parents  last  year. 

"  No,  she  would  never  do  that,"  she  said. 
She  always  obeyed  her  parents  implicitly,  as 
much  perhaps  through  superstition  as  anything 
else ;  but  she  had  an  instinctive  repugnance  for 


2l8  SISTER    PACHITA. 

her  surroundings,  notwithstanding  her  appar- 
ent submission,  and  she  felt  to-night,  as  she 
mused  before  the  opened  door,  looking  for  the 
coming  train  and  studying  the  sunset,  that  her 
life  was  very  empty  and  her  duties  pitifully 
few.  As  a  newly  awakened  nature  always 
gropes  its  way  to  something  better,  so  in  her 
blind  way  groped  little  'Chita,  whose  silent 
yearnings  were  wholly  unintelligible  to  her 
people,  and  not  always  quite  clear  to  herself. 
Away  in  Denver,  thousands  of  miles  away  she 
supposed  it  to  be,  the  Americanos  had  told 
her  there  was  a  Catholic  school  for  girls,  where 
they  were  taught  all  the  pretty  accomplishments 
and  the  exercise  of  the  charities,  and  where 
they  might  become  "  Sisters"  if  they  liked,  and 
devote  their  lives  to  the  mission  of  healing. 
'Chita  thought  of  this  night  and  day,  but  she 
would  never  leave  her  parents  while  they  lived. 


SISTER    PACHITA.  2IQ 

When  she  had  thought  out  all  this  she  would 
have  been  less  than  human  if  she  had  not  been 
unhappy.  A  little  knowledge  is  always  such  a 
drop  of  bitterness  in  the  cup  of  an  ambitious  girl, 
and  'Chita  had  drank  just  far  enough  to  taste 
her  helplessness. 

Pretty  soon  the  train  came  sweeping  round 
a  great  curve,  and  'Chita  forgot  her  unhappi- 
ness  in  the  joy  she  always  experienced  in  be- 
holding its  symmetry  and  speed. 

"How  like  a  thing  of  life!"  she  thought, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  a  fitting  messenger  of  all 
the  busy,  pushing  world  that  lay  away  below 
her  native  hills.  There  were  Dan,  the  con- 
ductor, and  Jack,  the  brakeman,  with  a  half 
dozen  more  officials  whose  faces  she  had  learn- 
ed to  know,  hanging  about  the  rear  platform, 
and  all  nodding  and  smiling  pleasantly  at  the 
nut-brown  maid  whom  they  were  so  accus- 


22O  SISTER    PACHITA. 

tomed  to  seeing,  and  who  seemed  to  them  the 
sweetest  spirit  of  all  that  rugged  solitude. 
'Chita  responded  to  their  salutations  with  ap- 
parent diffidence.  Pray,  was  not  Manuel  for- 
ever warning  her  against  these  treacherous 
Americans  ?  Nevertheless,  a  fair-complexioned 
man  was  a  great  curiosity  to  this  girl,  who  had 
only  seen  black  Jose,  the  young  Mexican  who 
tilled  the  field  adjoining  her  father's,  and  her 
great  dark  brothers  with  their  swarthy  skins 
and  saucy  eyes,  in  all  her  life  before.  No 
wonder,  then,  that  she  stole  furtive  glances  at 
Dan  when  she  thought  he  was  not  looking,  nor 
that  the  warm  color  leaped  into  her  bright  face 
as  he  hastily  stopped  the  train,  sprang  lightly 
to  the  ground,  and  with  hat  in  hand,  approach- 
ed her  with  as  much  respect  as  if  she  had  been 
the  greatest  lady  in  the  land. 

'"Chita,"  he   said — he   had   spoken   to    her 


SISTER    PACHITA.  221 

several  times  in  the  last  three  years — "  I  have 
a  lady  on  the  train  who  is  too  sick  to  go  on  to 
Alamosa.  I  want  you  to  take  her  to  your 
father's  house  and  care  for  her  until  she  is  bet- 
ter. Will  you?" 

Would  she  ?  The  indignation  she  felt  at  the 
question  flamed  into  her  face,  and  made  her 
cheeks  warmer  than  ever.  Of  course  she 
would,  she  said,  for  'Chita  spoke  a  little 
English  with  the  prettiest  accent  in  the  world. 
Her  diffidence  was  gone  now.  She  was  all 
interest,  and  followed  Dan  to  the  train  ere  she 
was  bidden.  Two  men  lifted  the  sick  woman 
from  the  car ;  such  a  pale,  fragile  creature  she 
was,  with  masses  of  yellow  hair,  and  great 
dark  circles  under  her  violet  eyes.  A  boy  fol- 
lowed carrying  a  pair  of  satchels,  and — how 
'Chita's  eyes  blazed  with  delight! — a  lovely 
child  some  four  years  of  age,  whose  little  rosy 


222  SISTER    PACHITA. 

face,  full  of  health,  made  such  a  pitiful  con- 
trast to  the  pale,  delicate  one  of  the  invalid  who 
was  his  mother. 

Dan  left  what  he  termed  a  big  escort  to  help 
'Chita  to  the  house  with  the  mother  and  child, 
and  the  little  Mexican's  life-work  began  that 
midnight,  when  the  invalid's  troubled  spirit 
winged  its  last  long  flight  from  earth,  but  not 
until  she  had  exacted  a  promise  from  'Chita  to 
•care  for  little  Carl  always.  He  had  no  friends, 
she  said,  unless,  unknown  to  her,  his  father 
lived.  A  dreadful  calamity  had  separated  them 
soon  after  the  child's  birth,  in  the  happy  father- 
land. She  had  come  to  the  mountains,  think- 
ing to  strengthen  her  poor  worn-out  lungs  for 
the  child's  sake,  but  she  had  come  too  late. 
She  was  going  home  to  God  now.  Would 
'Chita  keep  the  child?  Would  she  promise? 

And    'Chita  promised,   there  in   the    weird 


SISTER    PACHITA.  223 

moonlight,  while  the  mountain  breezes  played 
about  the  bed  of  straw,  and  the  girl,  devout 
always,  half  thought  she  could  hear  the  voices 
of  the  angels  as  they  came  to  free  the  suffering 
spirit. 

In  the  morning  old  Manuel  and  his  sons 
made  a  lone  grave  in  a  secluded  sjDot,  over 
which  'Chita  trained  sweet  wild  roses,  and 
where  she  took  the  boy  often,  and  taught  him 
to  implore  Our  Lady's  blessing  for  his  dead. 
Strangely  enough,  old  Manuel  and  Lisa  said 
nothing  against  'Chita's  keeping  the  child. 
She  would  never  marry  Jose  any  way,  they  said. 
He  would  soon  go  home  to  Old  Mexico  with 
a  broken  heart,  and  their  foolish  girl's  face  in 
his  memory  forever  perhaps,  in  spite  of  his 
long,  patient  wooing.  Let  her  keep  the  child ; 
the  mutton  pot  was  always  boiling,  and  'Chita 
should  make  clothes  for  little  Carl  from  the 


224  SISTER    PACHITA. 

sheep's  wool,  which  she  spun  with   her  own 
pretty  brown  hands. 

Three  long  happy  years  had  soon  passed 
away.  'Chita's  brothers,  long  since  grown 
weary  of  their  mountain  home,  had  gone  to 
seek  their  fortunes  in  the  great  world,  and  one 
scorching  summer  a  mountain  pestilence  came 
along,  and  took  away  poor  old  Manuel  and  his 
faithful  wife.  After  this  'Chita's  course  was 
plain.  There  was  a  purse  of  gold  among  the 
quaint  frocks  and  petticoats  of  Carl's  mother. 
He  had  grown  a  fine  boy  now,  and  loved  'Chita 
as  he  would  never  love  any  one  else.  She 
made  herself  and  him  as  decent  as  she  could, 
then  took  the  purse  of  gold,  and  boarding 
Dan's  swift  train,  was  away  to  the  northward 
and  her  long-dreamed  of  Denver,  where,  after 
she  had  placed  Carl  at  school,  as  she  knew  his 
mother  had  desired,  she  joined  that  army  of 


SISTER    PACHITA.  225 

angelic  women,  the  very  name  of  whose  order 
is  a  benediction  to  sufferers,  and  became  to  the 
world,  "Sister  Pachita." 

Never  in  her  life  had  she  been  so  happy  as 
now.  Healing  seemed  her  mission  on  earth ; 
ambition  tempted  her  no  further.  The  old 
restlessness  was  gone;  in  ministry  she  had 
found  peace.  She  was  no  longer  the  timid  bird 
of  the  mountains.  Perhaps  the  care  of  the 
child  had  developed  her  character  more  than 
anything  else  would  have  done,  for  Sister 
Pachita  was  a  mature  woman  at  an  age  when 
most  girls  are  only  children. 

When  Carl  was  ten  years  old,  and  still  at 
school,  there  was  borne  one  day  into  the  hos- 
pital, a  tall,  strong  man,  with  every  indication 
of  good  birth  and  fortune  upon  him,  from  his 
broad,  fair  brow  to  his  small  delicate  hands. 
He  was  suffering  with  fever,  was  a  stranger  in 


226  SISTER    PACHITA. 


the  city,  and  had  been  consigned  to  the  hos- 
pital by  wary  hotel  people  who  feared  incon- 
veniences. He  was  just  ill  enough  to  be 
peevish,  and  from  the  day  he  entered  the  place, 
refused  to  take  aught  from  the  hands  of  any 
one  save  'Chita,  who,  if  she  had  been  a  kindly 
child,  was  a  thousand  times  more  kindly  now,  as 
she  sat  by  his  bedside  in  her  lovely  ripening 
womanhood,  pacifying  him  as  best  she  might, 
for  she  saw  his  malady  was  of  mind,  and  not  of 
body.  There  was  something  vaguely  familiar 
in  that  broad  smooth  brow,  and  the  full  frank 
face  of  the  gentleman  who  was  now  her  con- 
stant care.  When  he  spoke,  it  seemed  to  her 
she  had  heard  that  voice  every  day  for  years, 
and  yet  she  could  trace  the  likeness  to  no  one. 
Whom  had  she  known  all  her  life  save  her 
swarthy  countrymen? 

One  day  Carl  came  into  the  hospital  on  a 


SISTER    PACHITA.  22/ 

hurried  mission  to  "  Mamma  'Chita,"  and  as  he 
stood  by  the  bedside  of  her  patient,  the  better 
to  gain  her  private  ear,  a  sharp  pang  shot 
through  her  heart,  as  she  saw  them,  man  and 
boy,  together.  A  swift  revelation,  which  she 
said  afterward,  must  have  come  from  God, 
came  over  her  with  as  much  vividness,  as  if  it 
had  been  written  on  the  skies  in  letters  of  fire. 
"  He  is  Carl's  father!  "  she  said  to  herself,  for 
the  boy  was  the  image  of  the  man;  and 
then  her  heart  sank  within  her,  as  she  thought 
of  the  probable  parting  and  sacrifice.  One 
day  when  her  patient  had  been  unusually  rest- 
less, she  had  told  him  the  story  of  her  boy, 
thinking  to  amuse  him,  and  now  as  the  twain 
gazed  at  each  other,  she  saw  the  glad  light  of 
recognition  in  the  father's  eyes — saw  him 
stretch  out  his  arms  for  the  boy,  take  him  to 
his  heart,  and  hold  him  there,  but  with  what  a 


228  SISTER    PACHITA. 

pang  of  wounded  mother-love! — what  a  fear- 
ful renunciation  of  all  that  was  dear  to  her  in 
life !  "  Come  with  you  ?  You  my  papa?  "  the 
boy  cries  in  bewilderment.  "  Perhaps  I  will 
come,  if  you  will  take  Mamma  'Chita  too?" 

The  man  smiles  and  puts  the  child  from  him, 
while  he  reaches  out  his  hand  to  the  lovely 
woman  who  sits  in  her  plain  black  garb  with 
bowed  head,  her  bright  eyes  filled  with  shining 
tears. 

"Sister  Pachita,"  he  says,  "Will  you  be  my 
wife  and  Carl's  mother  always?" 

But  the  little  hand  he  seeks  does  not  respond; 
the  head  remains  bowed,  a  convulsive  sob  is 
her  only  answer;  an  answer  which  he  under- 
stands only  too  well,  and  with  a  deep  groan 
turns  his  face  from  the  light  to  hide  his  anguish, 
for  this  is  the  love  of  his  mature  years,  the  deep 
tender  passion  a  man  feels  for  a  woman  who 


SISTER    PACHITA.  22Q 

has  befriended  him  and  his  in  time  of  trouble. 
This  was  no  summer  love  like  that  other  boy- 
ish romance,  enacted  so  long  since  across  the 
silver  sea.  Were  'Chita  to  allow  it,  she  would 
become  the  crowning  glory  of  a  good  man's 
life,  but  he  knows  she  is  inexorable.  See !  she 
fingers  her  cross,  and  counts  her  beads.  She 
implores  divine  assistance  to  aid  her  in  resist- 
ing the  sweetest  temptation  that  ever  comes  to 
woman,  be  she  saint  or  no.  Must  she  give  up 
Carl  ?  Dare  she  renounce  her  religion  ?  These 
questions  meet  and  wage  fierce  combat  in  her 
loyal  heart.  The  old  superstition  is  strong 
upon  her.  She  tries  to  throw  it  off,  for  Sister 
Pachita  is  an  intelligent  woman  as  well  as  a 
devout  one,  but  it  will  not  down  at  her  bid- 
ding. In  the  sight  of  God  and  man  she  has 
pledged  herself  to  the  holy  church,  and  no 
saint  of  olden  time  was  ever  truer  to  those 


23O  SISTER    PACHITA. 

vows  which  now  lay  upon  her  like  so  many 
iron  chains.  All  the  peace  she  has  gained  in 
ministry  is  gone.  After  all  she  is  but  a  woman. 
Her  breath  comes  hard  and  fast.  O !  why  does 
the  room  grow  so  dark?  It  seems  to  her  that 
the  very  sun  in  heaven  has  become  extinct — 
the  long  rows  of  white  beds  take  on  the  sem- 
blance of  graves,  so  ghastly  they  grow  in  the 
shadows  that  enthrall  her  soul.  She  sees  Carl 
in  his  father's  arms.  It  seems  to  her  she  is 
forgotten,  forgotten!  Already  she  sees  herself 
an  aged  woman,  bent  and  broken  with  years, 
but  still  wearing  the  garb  of  a  "sister,"  still 
passionately  longing  for  the  child,  which  is  as 
her  own  flesh,  yet  from  whom  destiny  has  sepa- 
rated her  forever. 

And  that  other  separation  ?  That  tall  strong 
man  who  would  have  gathered  her  to  his  heart, 
and  there  shielded  her  from  all  the  storms  of 


SISTER    PACHITA.  23! 

time  so  long  as  they  both  should  live — Holy 
Mother,  it  is  indeed  hard  that  thy  tenets  are  so 
stubborn,  thy  vows  so  binding,  that  they  con- 
geal young  life  blood,  render  women  childless 
and  loveless,  and  turn  rivers  of  love  into 
streams  of  black  despair;  yet  such  has  been 
their  mission  since  the  beginning  of  creeds — 
such  the  destruction  they  have  always  wrought. 
Apparently  Sister  Pachita  never  swerved  or 
faltered;  though  her  face  and  lips  were  the 
color  of  ashes,  she  rose  quietly  from  her  seat 
and  threw  back  the  long  black  veil  now  made 
hateful  to  her  for  all  time.  For  an  instant  she 
let  her  hand  rest  within  that  of  the  man  who 
might  have  been  her  husband;  the  man  who 
loved  her  as  perhaps  not  even  the  angels  in 
heaven  would  love  her  in  the  next  world. 
Darkness  was  coming  upon  her  again,  and  after 
hastily  snatching  Carl  to  her  bosom,  and  im- 


232  SISTER    PACHITA. 

pressing  a  burning  kiss  upon  his  wondering 
face,  she  lowered  her  veil  again,  and  left  the 
hospital  to  return  to  it  no  more. 

Many  months  they  sought  her — that  strick- 
en man  and  boy,  in  the  picturesque  solitudes 
of  the  far  West;  in  that  older  civilization  of 
the  Atlantic  sea-board — in  the  far  North,  even 
across  the  great  water,  into  the  old  world. 
Her  spirit  seemed  ever  with  them.  Could  it 
be  she  had  wilfully  forsaken  them  ?  Ah !  how 
little  they  dreamed  that  away  off  there  in  her 
native  valley  where  the  heavens  are  an  immor- 
tal canvas,  and  the  mountainous  solitudes  the 
eternal  silences  of  God,  she  had  wandered  back 
among  her  people  who  had  buried  her  on  the 
hillside  beside  that  other  unmarked  grave,  away 
off  there  in  the  South-land  when  another  sun- 
set was  upon  San  Luis  Valley. 


ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY. 


ST.  VALENTINE'S   DAY. 

g 

JO  one  will  be  so  busy  to-day  but  he 
will  stop  to  laugh  with  a  friend  over 
the  valentine  he  has  received  or  is 
about  to  dispatch  through  the  mail, 
as  a  mark  of  his  affection  or  an 
expression  of  some  happy  vein  of  humor.  If 
he  is  an  old  man  who  occupies  a  prominent 
position,  he  will  be  all  the  more  likely  to  re- 
ceive some  good-natured  comic  thing,  that  will 
make  him  shake  his  fat  sides  with  mirth.  If  he 
is  a  young  man  he  will  be  sure  to  receive  an 
indescribable  hand-painted  something  from  his 
lady-love  that  will  make  his  heart  sing  for  joy 
all  day  long.  But  to  the  lovely  debutante  a 


238  ST.  VALENTINE'S  DAY. 


valentine  means  more  than  it  does  to  any  one 
else.  Coming  as  it  does  in  the  very  heart  of 
the  gray  Lenten  season,  this  messenger  of  love 
and  prophecy  is  perhaps  more  welcome  than  a 
ball  dress  or  a  bank  note  would  be.  It  has 
such  a  delicious  air  of  mystery,  and  her  own 
room  seems  such  a  haven  of  refuge  for  its  peru- 
sal! If  she  knows  the  hand- writing  on  the 
envelope,  her  future  she  thinks,  is  assured.  If 
the  valentine  breathes  of  devotion  and  con- 
stancy, she  has  no  idea  that  pain  or  woe  can 
ever  betide  her.  She  accepts  the  faintest  inti- 
mations on  faith,  and  her  existence  becomes 
wholly  rose-colored  for  a  period  of  at  least  two 
weeks  following  the  eventful  day.  She  dis- 
plays her  treasure  only  to  her  most  intimate 
friend,  with  strict  injunctions,  "never  to  tell 
anybody."  Towards  evening  she  comes  down 
stairs  flushed  and  happy,  and  so  absorbed  in 


ST.    VALENTINES    DAY.  239 

her  own  pleasant  thoughts  that  she  scarcely 
notices  the  smile  which  papa  exchanges  with 
mamma,  as  he  passes  up  his  cup  the  second 
time.  Mamma  has  her  own  thoughts  too,  to- 
night. It  has  not  been  such  a  very  long  time, 
it  seems  to  her,  since  she  received  a  valentine, 
and  when  she  glances  at  the  beautiful  girl  by 
her  side,  she  can  scarcely  account  for  the  flight 
of  years. 

The  Roman  girl  will  sell  her  Parma  violets 
for  fabulous  sums  to-day;  the  dark  eyes  of  the 
little  senorita  will  sparkle  with  unusual  anima- 
tion, and  the  great  seething  mass  of  humanity 
will  think  less  of  its  cares  and  troubles,  be- 
cause of  the  innocent  merriment  of  this  happy 
day. 


APRIL    RAINS. 


APRIL  RAINS. 

HAT  a  vague,  undefined  kind  of 
season  April  weather  brings;  a 
season  when  the  exciting  pleas- 
ures of  winter  are  over,  when  sum- 
mer is  yet  a  thing  of  the  future, 
and  the  half  warm,  half  chill  grey  days  hang 
over  humanity — a  soft,  grey  curtain  of  forget- 
fulness  and  rest.  These  calm,  queer  days  are 
not  usually  glorified  with  colorings  of  hope; 
they  are  too  misty  and  uncertain  for  that. 
Buoyancy  springs  principally  from  warm,  clear 
skies,  from  opening  buds  and  singing  birds. 
April  weather  brings  no  such  awakenings. 
Nor  yet  is  it  a  time  of  saddening  retrospections. 


244  APRIL    RAINS. 


No  one  thinks  of  accomplishing  great  ends 
when  the  heavens  are  full  of  weepings,  and  the 
sun  shines  gloriously  one  hour  only  to  cover 
himself  with  frowns  and  tears  the  next 

Households  are  more  quiet  on  these  calm, 
uncertain  days;  business  places  are  not  so 
thronged ;  places  of  amusement  are  often  half 
deserted.  The  average  American  accomplishes 
little  in  the  rainy  season,  and  if  you  seek  him 
in  his  study,  his  office  or  his  home,  you  will 
find  him  a  thousand  times  more  agreeable  than 
you  have  during  the  long  months  of  the  busy 
season  he  has  just  passed  through. 

The  day  is  just  damp  enough  to  make  a 
sojourn  in  the  house  more  comfortable  than 
anything  else,  and  you  think  your  friend  un- 
usually cordial  as  you  enter  his  room,  which, 
on  account  of  the  rain,  is  probably  not  in  such 
painfully  good  order  as  you  generally  find  it. 


APRIL    RAINS.  245 


Very  likely  he  has  just  finished  a  prowl  among 
old  letters  and  papers,  for  there  is  a  suspicious 
untidiness  about  his  escretoire  there  in  the 
corner,  and  he  luxuriates  in  the  delightful  neg- 
lige of  dressing  gown  and  slippers.  You  feel 
at  home  from  the  moment  you  enter  the  place. 
The  formality  which  always  attends  a  good 
weather  visit  does  not  exist,  and  you  may  ele- 
vate your  muddy  shoes  to  any  height  you  may 
see  fit,  and  smoke  in  perfect  bliss. 

There  is  a  charm  about  April  dampness,  a 
profound  calm  that  summer  rains  never  bring. 
Unceasing  effort  rests  her  weary  wings  for  a 
brief  while,  and  mortals  are  left  one  little  space 
of  time  to  commune  with  their  souls.  Worldly 
cares  are  quite  put  to  rout,  amidst  all  the  grave 
and  quiet  serenity  which  settles  down  upon 
everything.  Sleep  comes  unsought.  Evil 
thoughts  take  to  themselves  wings.  Spring 


246  APRIL    RAINS. 


rains  are  the  harbingers  of  mental  peace;  the 
exponents  of  that  dozy  somnolent  phase  of 
existence,  a  taste  of  which  comes  often  in  the 
light  of  salvation  to  those  who  toil  early  and 
late  for  daily  sustenance. 


MY  VALENTINE. 


MY  VALENTINE. 

— % 

AM  an  old  maid  now,  with  gray 
hair  and  wrinkled,  care-worn  face, 
which  certainly  is  not  beautiful,  but 
which  was  not  wholly  unattractive,  I 
believe,  twenty  years  ago.  My  par- 
ents died  when  I  was  a  child,  and  I  was  left  to 
the  tender  mercies  of  my  aunt,  who  made  me 
work  like  a  little  slave,  and  never  lost  an  oppor- 
tunity of  telling  me  how  much  she  was  doing 
for  me,  and  how  ill  she  could  afford  it.  She 
lived  in  a  small  village  near  St.  Louis,  and  I 
used  to  lie  awake  nights  planning  how  I  could 
elude  my  dragon-like  relative  by  a  flight  to 
that  famous  city,  which  I  fancied  was  one  bril- 
liant mass  of  riches  and  happiness.  I  had  only 


252  MY    VALENTINE. 


one  friend  in  the  village,  and  he  the  son  of  the 
wealthiest  and  most  popular  resident,  was  so 
far  removed  from  me,  in  a  social  way,  that  I 
seldom  saw  him,  and  when  I  did,  he  had  to 
steal  into  our  garden  at  twilight  with  the  new 
book  or  the  cake  he  had  generously  set  apart 
from  his  store  for  his  wretched  little  friend. 

He  was  fourteen  years  old,  as  I  first  remem- 
ber him ;  a  frank,  open-faced,  fair-complexioned 
boy,  with  roses  in  his  cheeks  and  happiness  in 
his  sparkling  blue  eyes,  and  a  quick,  light  step, 
which  often  turned  into  a  leap  when  he  wanted 
to  clear  any  obstacle  or  when  he  had  reason  to 
make  extra  haste.  We  had  met  at  a  school 
picnic  once  before  my  mother  died,  when  I 
had  worn  a  little,  clean  muslin  frock  with  blue 
ribbons,  and  had  had  my  thick,  dark  hair 
combed  out  and  curled  properly,  perhaps  the 
only  time  during  the  whole  course  of  my  child- 


MY    VALENTINE.  253 

hood.  The  picnic  was  a  May  party,  and  Frank 
Fairfield,  that  was  his  name,  had  insisted  upon 
crowning  me  queen  of  the  fete,  though  the 
other  girls  did  not  like  it,  and  hung  their  heads 
not  a  little  when  Frank  twisted  the  apple  blos- 
soms in  my  hair,  and  proclaimed  me  sovereign 
from  the  top  of  an  infirm  old  stump,  which 
barely  bore  our  weight  until  the  speech  was 
finished.  After  that  he  was  always  my  sworn 
champion,  and  stood  up  for  my  rights  in  such 
a  way  that  I  couldn't  help  loving  him.  He 
came  to  see  me  when  mother  died,  and  stayed 
so  long,  mingling  his  tears  with  mine,  that  they 
sent  a  servant  for  him,  and  then  I  thought  they 
kept  him  away,  because  I  didn't  see  him  for 
months. after  I  went  to  Aunt  Jerusha's.  One 
day,  I  had  been  helping  with  the  washing,  and 
my  little  hands  were  all  bruised  and  sore,  when, 
happening  to  go  to  the  door  for  something,  I 


254  MY    VALENTINE. 


saw  Frank  Fairfield  across  the  street,  and  heard 
the  well  known  whistle  with  which  he  always 
called  me.  The  tune  was  "Take  Your  Time, 
Miss  Lucy,"  and  I  will  never  forget  it  to  my 
dying  day.  I  threw  on  my  bonnet  and  flew 
across  the  road,  where  he  stood  under  an  old 
tree  waiting  for  me. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  not  well  treated,  Janey," 
he  said,  taking  my  little  red  hands  in  his  own 
soft  palms,  and  looking  at  them  pityingly. 
"Never  mind,  I'm  going  away  to  school  next 
week,  and  when  I  come  back  I'll  be  grown  a 
big  man.  We'll  be  married  then,  and  I'll  take 
care  of  you." 

A  big  lump  rose  in  my  throat.  If  Frank 
went  away  how  could  I  endure  my  wretched 
life?  How  bear  the  kicks  and  cuffs  which  I 
daily  received,  and  know  I  had  no  friend  to  aid 
or  sympathise  ? 


MY    VALENTINE.  255 

"Don't  go,  Frank,"  I  sobbed;  "please  don't 
go  and  leave  me  here  alone  with  Aunt  Jerusha." 

I  can  never  forget,  no,  not  if  I  live  to  be  a 
hundred  years  old,  the  manly  way  in  which  he 
sought  to  comfort  me,  and  to  reconcile  me  to 
the  hardness  of  my  lot  until  we  should  be 
grown,  and  able  to  go  out  into  the  great  world 
together. 

"  I  shall  be  a  great  lawyer,  Janey,"  he  said, 
"  and  you'll  ride  in  your  own  carriage  and  wear 
silks  and  satins  one  of  these  days." 

But  this  promised  splendor  was  small  con- 
solation, and  I  cried  myself  sick  the  day  I 
knew  Frank  was  to  go  away  to  school.  After 
that  it  seemed  to  me  my  aunt  grew  more 
abusive  every  day,  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
memory  of  Frank,  I  believe  I  would  have 
swallowed  poison  and  ended  my  poor  wretched 
existence  before  it  had  gone  any  further.  As  it 


256  MY    VALENTINE. 


was,  I  could  not  do  that,  and  the  old  plan  of 
flying  to  the  city  began  to  revolve  itself  in  my 
mind  over  and  over  again. 

Frank  was  not  allowed  to  write  to  any  one 
outside  of  his  family,  or  his  good  counsel 
would  probably  have  put  that  notion  out  of  my 
head  effectually.  I  had  only  my  own  sad  heart 
to  commune  with,  and  the  life  I  led  was  killing 
me  by  inches.  One  night  when  my  aunt  had 
gone  to  a  neighbor's,  and  the  children  were 
fast  asleep,  I  made  my  small  belongings  into  a 
bundle  and  crept  stealthily  from  the  house,  out 
into  the  clear  star-lit  night.  I  took  my  way 
across  the  fields  to  the  station,  and,  as  luck 
would  have  it,  met  no  one,  and  as  it  was  early 
autumn,  slept  warmly  and  unmolestedly  be- 
neath a  hay-stack,  and  the  next  day  pursued 
my  way  to  the  city,  guided  by  the  friendly 
sign-boards,  with  which  the  country  road  is 


MY    VALENTINE.  257 


thickly  dotted.  The  distance  was  not  great, 
and  I  reached  the  city  the  second  day  at  noon, 
so  foot-sore,  faint  and  weary  that  I  can  never 
look  upon  the  poorest  tramp  without  a  feeling 
of  the  sincerest  pity.  I  will  not  weary  you 
with  a  description  of  that  horrible  time.  I  beg- 
ged, but  never  stole,  and  the  people  who 
finally  befriended  me  were  honest,  simple  souls, 
who,  if  they  were  not  extravagantly  generous, 
were  at  least  possessed  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness,  and  when  I  found  a  home  with  them 
I  knew  I  was  safe. 

Years  rolled  on,  and  from  my  quiet  place  as 
household  domestic,  I  drifted  into  bonnet- 
making,  for  which  I  had  much  natural  taste 
and  became  quite  an  artist  in  my  way.  Occa- 
sionally I  heard  from  a  play-mate  in  my  native 
village,  that  Frank  had  never  been  home  for 
vacations,  that  he  traveled  during  the  inter- 


258  MY    VALENTINE. 


vals  of  study,  and  that  he  was  fast  becoming  a 
man  and  a  scholar.  At  such  times  my  heart 
beat  high,  and  yet  when  I  realized  the  differ- 
ence in  our  positions  in  life,  a  sudden  nameless 
fear  took  possession  of  me,  for  I  had  not  lived  all 
those  years  in  a  great  city  not  to  have  observed 
the  changes  which  come  into  men's  hearts 
sometimes.  I  knew  that  Frank  did  not  know 
where  I  was,  and  it  had  always  been  my  desire 
that  he  should  not  know.  Once  indeed  I  had 
endeavored  to  write  to  him,  but  the  letter  pre- 
sented such  an  awkward  and  blundering  ap- 
pearance that  I  was  glad  to  throw  the  tear- 
stained  thing  in  the  fire  and  go  on  with  my 
bonnets,  those  dear  mute  things  which  some- 
how had  more  sympathy  for  me  than  any  living 
thing  I  encountered  in  those  days.  Bonnets 
were  the  expressions  of  my  life.  If  I  felt  blithe 
and  cheery,  the  work  of  my  hands  came  out 


MY    VALENTINE.  259 


in  bright  warm  colors,  with  plenty  of  spring 
roses  and  an  air  of  gayety  and  elegance  pleas- 
ant to  behold;  if  my  thoughts  dwelt  on  dismal 
childhood,  I  made  mourning  head-gear,  the 
blackest  and  most  sombre.  This  occupation 
was  balm  to  me  then,  just  as  it  is  to-day,  for 
although  I  have  my  own  room  now,  my  cat  on 
the  hearth  and  my  bird  in  the  window,  as  all 
old  maids  have,  I  believe,  I  will  take  to  bon- 
nets as  naturally  as  a  duck  does  to  water. 

Well,  one  bright  morning  in  late  winter,  St. 
Valentine's  day  in  fact,  as  I  was  nearing  my 
sixteenth  birthday,  my  mistress  gave  me  a  holi- 
day, and  having  gone  out,  left  me  to  dispose  of 
it  as  best  I  could.  The  bonnets  had  been  care- 
fully locked  up  for  the  day,  and  as  my  solace 
in  that  direction  was  thus  cut  off,  I  decided  to 
spend  the  morning  in  walking  about  the  city, 
as  the  weather  was  bright  and  sunny — a  fore- 


26O  MY    VALENTINE. 


runner  of  those  immense  spring  thaws  with 
which  St.  Louis  people  are  so  well  acquainted. 
As  I  tied  on  my  sober  bonnet  more  leisurely 
than  usual,  I  was  half  startled  to  see  how  tall 
and  womanly  I  had  grown,  and  how  my  little, 
pinched  childish  face  had  grown  round  and 
rosy,  and  my  big  eyes  full  of  contentment  if 
not  of  happiness.  Even  to  myself  I  was  not 
an  unpleasant  picture,  and  I  remember  experi- 
encing a  feeling  of  exhilaration  as  I  locked  the 
door  of  the  little  bonnet  shop,  and  took  my 
way  down  one  of  the  principal  avenues.  I  re- 
member meeting  ever  so  many  groups  of 
young  girls  on  the  streets  that  'morning,  many 
of  them  chattering  and  laughing  over  bits  of 
gilded  and  tinseled  paper,  which  I  knew  must 
be  valentines.  Wandering  on  in  a  kind  of 
dreamy  mood,  I  surprised  myself  greatly  by 
bringing  up  at  the  postoffice,  where  I  had  been 


MY    VALENTINE.  26 1 


some  few  times  for  my  mistress,  and  had  soon 
taken  my  place  in  the  eager  expectant  row, 
which  blocked  the  way  to  the  general  delivery. 
My  turn  came  at  last !  Not  in  the  least  ex- 
pecting an  affirmative  answer,  I  yet  summoned 
up  courage  to  pronounce  my  name,  and,  in  so 
doing,  felt  perhaps  more  than  I  had  ever  done 
before  that  I  had  at  least  something  in  com- 
mon with  other  human  beings.  I  waited  with 
a  peculiar  feeling  at  my  heart,  while  the  clerk 
drew  forth  a  large  lavender  envelope  which 
actually  contained  my  name  on  the  back.  I 
had  never  received  a  letter  before,  and  I  flew 
home  breathless  and  excited  to  examine  its 
precious  contents.  It  was  an  elaborate  valen- 
tine, and  closely  entwined  with  the  usual  true- 
lover's  knot  were  the  words,  "Janey  and 
Frank,"  written  in  a  clear,  manly  hand,  and 
over  a  knot  in  another  corner  he  had  written 


262  MY    VALENTINE. 


"  Hope,"  in  a  manner  too  plain  to  be  mistaken. 
A  little  motto,  containing  the  words,  "Just  one 
year  from  to-day,"  fell  from  the  envelope  to 
the  floor,  and  all  the  rest  of  the  day  I  sat  in  a 
kind  of  ecstasy  of  surprise,  for  I  was  a  very 
matter-of-fact  girl,  and  not  fanciful  enough  to 
have  built  air-castles  of  any  kind. 

The  next  year  passed  away  peacefully,  and 
having  had  so  much  hope  added  to  my  life,  I 
had  grown  rosier  and  taller  each  day.  When 
the  eventful  morning  of  the  I4th  arrived,  I  put 
aside  my  bonnets,  and  went  early  to  the  post- 
office,  this  time  to  be  badly  disappointed  by 
receiving  nothing. 

Slowly  turning  my  foot-steps  homeward,  I 
was  shocked  to  perceive  a  funeral  procession 
moving  towards  a  church  which  lay  in  my  way, 
and  for  some  reason  I  never  could  explain,  I 
entered  and  took  a  seat  the  sexton  gave  me  by 


MY    VALENTINE.  263 


the  door.  There  was  something  strangely 
familiar  in  the  haughty  carriages  of  the  elderly 
couple  and  the  two  young  ladies  who  formed 
the  procession.  They  were  in  the  deepest 
•  grief,  and  seemed  to  possess  the  perfect  sym- 
pathy of  the  congregation,  which  I  knew  was 
an  aristocratic  one  of  the  Episcopal  persuasion. 
I  seemed  riveted  to  the  spot,  and  sat  through 
'the  long  service,  scarcely  taking  my  eyes  off 
the  mourners,  whom  I  was  sure  I  had  seen  be- 
fore. When  the  congregation,  according  to 
the  old  style,  were  invited  to  pass  through  the 
aisles  and  look  at  the  corpse,  I  found  myself 
transported  to  the  spot  by  the  same  uncanny 
influence  I  had  felt  upon  entering  the  church. 
The  instant  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  proud,  young 
face,  now  cold  in  death,  I  recognized  it,  knew  it 
was  all  that  remained  to  earth  of  my  youthful 
playmate,  my  early  love,  my  valentine.  With 


264  MY    VALENTINE. 


a  sharp,  low  cry  I  fell  prostrate  upon  the  steps 
of  the  altar,  and  when  I  awoke  to  consciousness 
a  week  later,  I  was  in  my  own  little  room, 
while  a  kind  nurse  bent  over  me  and  begged 
me  not  to  distress  myself  by  asking  questions. 
As  time  wore  on  I  grew  stronger,  and  was 
able  to  resume  my  work,  and  few  ever  knew  of 
my  terrible  experience  that  valentine's  day. 
Grief  seldom  kills,  and  though  I  am  a  lone 
woman  and  a  saddened  one,  I  think  I  can  hum- 
bly say  that  I  have  performed  many  duties 
during  the  course  of  my  long  life,  and  that  the 
world  has  been  rendered  some  little  service  by 
my  having  lived. 


THE  LADY'S  DREAM. 


THE  LADY'S  DREAM. 

is  alone  in  the  moon-light.  Her 
head  is  dropped  upon  her  hand.  A 
book  lies  on  her  lap,  but  she  is  not 
reading. 

There  are  times  when  even  our  fa- 
vorite authors  fail  to  amuse,  when  their  elo- 
quent language  seems  tame,  and  their  inspired 
pages  forced  and  unnatural ;  when  we  cannot 
smile  at  the  drollest  conceptions,  or  weep  over 
incidents  the  most  pathetic.  These  are  the 
hours  of  retrospection,  and  surely  they  are  not 
without  their  use. 

Oh  !   Memory,  thou  art  often  a  green  spot  in 
the  desert-lands  of  Existence.    Who  shall  scoff 


2/o  THE  LADY'S  DREAM. 

when  thy  cooling  zephyrs  are  wafted  across  the 
fevered  brain,  to  which  alone  thou  canst  bring 
succor  ?  Is  there  not  a  ten-fold  zest  added  to  the 
pleasures  of  memory?  Think  you  any  mortal 
state  could  have  been  half  as  joyous  as  your 
poor  heart,  so  worn  and  weary,  now  pictures  it 
by  contrast  across  the  lapse  of  years  ?  To  you, 
or  to  the  elderly  lady,  half  dozing  there  by  the 
fire-light,  her  open  book  wholly  unnoticed  on 
her  knee,  the  march  of  time  is  but  a  vision  or 
a  parable. 

The  wrinkles  of  age  are  in  her  face  to-night. 
The  bands  of  her  hair  are  of  a  silvery  hue;  her 
infirmities  increase  so  rapidly  she  does  not  even 
hear  you  as  you  cross  the  threshold,  and  take 
the  empty  chair  there  by  the  fire.  Do  you 
know  what  life  she  is  living  to-night  ?  Can  you 
imagine  whence  that  old  tender  heart  is  roam- 
ing while  the  fire  burns  fitfully,  and  the  moon 


THE    LADYS    DREAM.  2/1 

light  is  streaming  in  like  a  golden  flood  ?  Tis 
a  winter's  eve,  but  not  so  in  the  lady's  dream. 
She  thinks  of  a  time  when  queenly  Summer 
was  abroad  over  the  earth,  when  every  leaf  and 
bud  and  flower  were  full  of  warm,  happy, 
healthy  life — a  day  in  early  June,  a  cloudless 
sky,  masses  of  rich  crimson  berries,  and  two 
pairs  of  hands  working  among  them  with  so 
much  seeming  industry.  Ah!  those  hands, 
two  of  them  so  strong  and  brown,  and  two  of 
them — can  it  be  these  old  shrivelled  hands  are 
the  same  fair  dimpled  ones  she  stained  with 
strawberries  that  day?  Bending  fondly  over 
her,  she  sees  the  fairest,  frankest  face!  How 
the  well-remembered  tones  thrill  into  her  heart, 
as  she  imagines  she  hears  him  speak !  Surely 
this  is  no  vision.  She  is  a  girl  once  more,  all 
the  long,  lonely  years,  all  the  bitter  doubts  and 
cruel  bars  are  swept  away.  They  are  together 


2/2  THE    LADYS    DREAM. 

once  more,  in  the  summer  of  the  year  and  the 
spring  of  their  lives,  while  heaven  smiles  down 
upon  their  pure  young  love,  and  all  the  forest 
birds  sing  triumphant  anthems  of  glorious 
praise.  Shone  ever  the  sun  so  brightly  before? 
Sang  ever  the  birds  outside  of  Eden  as  they 
sang  that  happy,  long-ago  day  ?  Ah !  poor 
dear  lady,  was  it  the  intense  beauty  of  your 
spring,  perhaps,  that  has  made  your  winter  so 
cold,  and  drear,  and  desolate  ? 

The  hours  go  on,  but  she  does  not  move  or 
seem  to  realize  the  flight  of  time.  They  leave 
the  old  garden  now,  hand  in  hand,  side  by  side, 
heart  throbbing  to  heart,  but  not  until  they 
have  turned  about  to  take  a  last  farewell  of  all 
the  smiling  verdure  in  that  old  south  garden. 
He  bends  his  handsome  head  to  touch  her  lips, 
and  murmur  a  wish  that  this  day  may  be  em- 
blematic of  their  lives.  O !  gentle  lady,  would 


THE   LADYS    DREAM.  2/3 

to  God  it  had  been  so  for  your  sweet  sake. 
Hand  in  hand  they  go  out  at  the  old  garden 
gate,  up  the  steep  and  rugged  hill  of  Life.  The 
path-way  is  full  of  stones  and  briers,  but  as  often 
as  she  cries  out  with  pain,  just  so  often  does  he 
take  her  to  his  bosom,  and  comfort  her.  They 
travel  on  and  on,  and  after  a  time  God  is  good 
to  them,  and  lovely  children  are  sent  to  them, 
that  their  hearts  may  be  for  ever  cemented  in 
the  love  that  passeth  all  understanding.  Little 
laughing  voices  are  their's,  little  tender  feet  run- 
ning on  before  in  the  journey  up  the  Mountain; 
little  forms  gathering  new  strength  and  beauty 
every  day;  little  hearts  wherein  the  parents  have 
new  thrones,  and  are  crowned  again,  just  as 
they  crowned  each  other  among  the  scarlet  ber- 
ries, that  never-to-be-forgotten  day  in  the  glad 
long-ago.  This  is  the  blessed  fruition  of  a  life 
of  love,  and  now  one  child  has  been  transformed 


2/4  THE    LADYS    DREAM. 

into  an  angel,  and  a  little  eager  voice  cries 
"Mother,  come!"  .  Hark!  Did  you  not  hear 
the  echo  of  that  little  voice  ?  Can  you  say  that 
the  little  dream-child  did  not  call,  and  that  the 
poor  soul  there  by  the  fire,  who,  until  to-night 
has  ne'er  known  aught  of  love  since  that  sum- 
mer day,  does  not  respond  with  a  wealth  of 
mother-love,  which  real  mothers  never  know  ? 
Ah  !  she  is  waking.  The  poor  weary  head 
lifts  itself  heavily  from  the  withered  hand  ;  the 
soft  eyes  wander  aimlessly  about  the  room. 
She  sees  the  reflection  of  her  haggard  face  there 
in  the  mirror,  by  the  ghastly  moonlight.  A 
shudder  thrills  through  her,  as  she  compares 
its  pallor  with  the  roses  of  the  bright  young 
face  in  the  old  south  garden,  and  yet  it  is  as 
though  a  flood  of  rich  melody  had  been  poured 
into  her  sombre  room,  and  all  night  long  she 
sees  the  beautiful  face  of  the  lovely  dream- 


THE    LADYS    DREAM. 


275 


child, — it  is  the  same  frank,  fond  face  that  bent 
over  her  among  the  scarlet  berries  in  the  sum- 
mer of  the  year  and  the  spring  of  her  life. 


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